


a certain light

by flightagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Human Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightagain/pseuds/flightagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel works at the Gas-n-Sip. There are half-price nachos and flickering lights, there are office-workers and werewolves stopping by for snacks. Dean is a frequent customer, and his office might be haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s just after six in the morning, and Castiel is cleaning the slushie machine. He’s refilling the dispensers for raspberry and cherry, he's wiping away the mess from the day before. This is something Spangler should have done last night, but Spangler spends all his shifts responding to YouTube comments on his phone, and none of his shifts doing any actual work. So Castiel gets to do it instead.

Ava will be coming in at eight. In the meantime, Castiel drinks a lot of coffee and puts out most of the day’s delivery. He is tired today. He’s tired most days. There are so many different kinds of soda to shelve. There are so many colors of Gatorade.

When he’s finished, he looks at the rows of bottles, each one ordered and neat. His eyes drift across them for a while and he doesn’t really think about much.

It’s been raining all morning. There’s a constant drumming against the roof and the windows, and when Castiel looks out at the parking lot, he can watch the water bounce up from the ground. There are long, low howls of wind. Hollow-sounding, he thinks. A little sad.

The ceiling light above the coffee machine is flickering again. Nora replaced the bulb last week, but that hasn't really changed anything at all. It might be a ghost. Castiel has been considering that lately. Probably not, but maybe. He can’t tell yet.

A dark spirit comes into the store that morning, wanting cigarettes. The spirit has taken the form of a man in a light brown coat, but its presence swirls around it, ugly and strange. Castiel watches it warily throughout the transaction, but nothing happens. It just buys some Marlboro Reds.

Castiel can’t always sense them, the spirits and creatures and everything else. But mostly, he can. He sees a lot, and these days, he just tries to ignore it. No one is ever pleased to find out what he knows, and it’s never done him any good.

Ava arrives at seven fifty-five. Her umbrella half-crumples itself over her head as she forces her way across the parking lot, fighting against the wind. She stands in the open entrance and shakes some rain off the umbrella, then closes the door and stands there in her oversized green coat.

“Morning,” she says to Castiel. She wipes her boots on the mat. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he tells her. She’s walking towards the counter, heading for the back. “Do you want some coffee?” he asks. 

Ava huffs, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” she says. “Only always. Thanks.”

So Castiel flips the coffee machine on again. He watches the light above it flicker, on and off, on and off.

The morning is a slow one. The minutes stretch themselves out, dragging on too long. Ava puts a football game on the television. A woman buys four cherry slushies, and they see her drop one in the parking lot outside. Castiel goes to bring her a new one, but she’s already in her car, the lost slushie abandoned to the rain. He stands in the open doorway. He watches the rivulets of icy red run slowly towards the drain.

“Cas?” Ava says from the cash register. Castiel blinks. He remembers to shut the door again, to turn back inside.

He likes Ava. She doesn’t avoid work the way Harry does, and she never seems to mind working with Castiel. She’ll be moving soon, to start a graduate degree in Massachusetts, and she’s very excited about it. It’s nice. She’ll be doing some kind of genetics research. She reads interesting-looking textbooks on her breaks these days.

Around lunchtime, a customer decides that his struggle to find a particular brand of beer must be due to the Gas-n-Sip’s _goddamn fucking incompetence_. Castiel watches the man's face for a while, the angry movements of his mouth. He waits for him to stop talking.

Eventually the door bangs shut with the man's departure, and a girl who is a werewolf pays for gas. She buys beef jerky and a light blue Gatorade. She looks tired. She’s been trying very hard, for a long time, not to hurt anybody. Castiel doesn’t say anything about this. It would only alarm her, and it wouldn't help.

He’s learned, at least.

Her weariness, though, her dull, aching heart, twists tight in his chest, even after she’s driven away.

He’s restocking the chips and Ava’s having her lunch when the door creaks open again. It's Dean. Castiel looks down at the shelf and carefully places another bag of Doritos. His hand crinkles the packaging.

Dean is a regular customer. The Gas-n-Sip has quite a few. The store is in the city, close to a lot of the office buildings, and it’s on plenty of people’s journeys to work. Dean gets his gas here, and often, on his lunch break, he comes to buy coffee.

The Gas-n-Sip’s coffee is terrible. Castiel hasn’t brought up this issue with Dean, though. For business reasons. Nora wouldn’t be pleased.

Dean’s been holding his suit jacket over his head, where it's not quite sheltered him from his trip through the rain. Inside now, he puts the jacket back on, tugging the front straight, and he scrubs at his hair with a hand. He glances over at the counter, and then around the store. When he sees Castiel, he grins, crooked and nice.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” says Castiel.

Dean goes to get his coffee. Castiel takes the Doritos box over to the counter, by the coffee machine. He sets the box down for now. He _is_ supposed to be at the counter when there are customers.

Dean is considering the television. “You like football?” he asks Castiel, his eyes on the game.

“Ava likes football,” Castiel corrects. Dean turns back to look at him. He seems to be thinking that over, as though it's something more complicated than it actually is. But then he just smiles again. Castiel feels his own mouth curl upwards in response.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel straightens up the candy by the cash register. He sorts out the Skittles packets and realigns the Milky Ways. It’s something to focus on. It’s something that needs doing.

“How’s the shift?” Dean asks him. He’s frowning down at his coffee, trying to fit on one of the white plastic lids. It takes a few tries. Dean does this every time. Everyone does. The lids are a terrible design.

Castiel means to just say, _Fine_ , and then to ask Dean about Sandover. Instead, he says, “Fine,” and then he says, “I saw the movie you were talking about.”

He clenches his jaw right away. But when Dean turns around, he doesn’t look confused, like he’s forgotten what Castiel means. He looks pleased.

“Yeah?” he says.

“It was on television,” Castiel tells him. “Ghostbusters,” he adds, in case Dean has forgotten, and is trying to be polite.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I know. So did you like it?”

Castiel considers. “Yes,” he decides. “It was strange.”

Dean blinks, once, and then smiles. Dean gets this nice expression, sometimes. Castiel has thought so before. His eyes go kind of curious, kind of soft. Like something personal. Like the smile is almost a question that he’s asking.

Castiel glances down, feeling very weary with himself.

“It’s funny, right?” Dean says. Castiel nods.

“Right,” he says. “I liked it.”

“And, you know, about time, too,” Dean adds. His tone has shifted seamlessly to something lofty. He can do that. This had been Dean's original point, the last time that they’d talked. “Seriously, man, _everyone_ has seen that movie.”

“Everyone,” Castiel says. He gives Dean a look, skeptical, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah, everyone. Now that you’ve caught up, anyway.” He pulls a face. It looks a little ridiculous. “C’mon, who doesn’t know _don’t cross the streams_?”

Castiel shrugs a shoulder. “It’s never been an issue before now.”

Dean snorts. “Okay,” he says, like he doesn’t believe it. He shakes his head, laughing again. “Dude, I am so gonna have to show y– ” He stops. His mouth snaps shut.

Castiel frowns.

“Have to what?”

“Uh,” Dean says. He turns strangely red, a flush to his cheeks, to his ears. “Nothing. Just.” He glances at the window. Castiel looks, too. “Still raining,” Dean offers, like this is a part of the conversation.

“Yes,” Castiel says, feeling uncertain. “It is.”

Dean looks down. “Right. I’ll, uh, just pay for this, then,” he says, raising his coffee.

Castiel tries to catch his eye. He doesn’t manage it. So he just stands behind the cash register, watching as Dean takes out his wallet, then his money. Dean still seems odd, thrown off guard, and Castiel doesn’t know what happened.

“Have you seen The Shining?” he tries, all the same. That was on television too, recently. Castiel’s been watching a lot of TV, now that he has one. And Dean mentioned liking horror movies, once. So.

There’s a pause, and then Dean looks back up at him. Castiel watches, waiting, not sure what else he could say. And then Dean’s tension seems to fade, and his eyes go bright instead.

“Cas,” he says, at last, slow and amused. “Cas, _everyone’s_ seen The Shining, man. Everybody.”

Castiel looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Actually,” he says, “I turned it off halfway through.”

It’s only a joke, not really true, and it’s worth it for Dean’s expression before he realizes.

\--

The store feels very quiet, after Dean goes. There’s the rain outside, and there’s Ava in the back, listening to her music. There’s Castiel, back to shelving the Doritos. He places them in neat, layered rows. Someone will only mess them up again, but he does it all the same. The Doritos, then the Funyuns and the Cheetos, every single flavor of Lay’s, set out in orderly blocks of color. It might last for a little while, anyway.

Sometimes, when Castiel closes the store at night, when he’s mopped and cleaned and all the aisles are tidied and straight, when everything is totally ready for Nora in the morning, he can stand by the door, the sky black outside, and he can think, okay. Just for a moment. Okay.

Castiel works long hours. He works a lot of overtime, too, a lot of extra shifts. He gets most of his groceries at the Gas-n-Sip, because of the employee discount.

He needs to buy new shoes, though, and they don’t sell them at the store. The ones he has are the ones he could afford, and they’re not doing well in the rain. They’re kind of falling apart. His feet are cold today. His back is hurting again.

He’s very tired.

The day crawls on. Four o’clock is two hours away now, and it is also an eternity away. Castiel tries to pay attention to the customers, but he knows his mind is drifting. He’s thinking about his apartment, about his room and his bed and the idea of lying down as soon as he gets home. His blanket over him, his face pressed into the pillow. Shutting his eyes.

A woman comes in and complains about the price of soya milk. A doppelganger buys a lottery ticket, and Castiel feels tense, short of breath, although he’s never even met the creature’s original. Then a man comes in and throws up in the bathroom. Castiel puts on some yellow gloves and cleans it up.

He goes back to the cash register and digs his fingers into the muscles at the top of his back. It’s an awkward angle, and it doesn’t help very much. Harry arrives at two minutes past four. Castiel can finally leave. He just wants to go to sleep.

“Nice shirt,” Harry says as he walks by, like Castiel doesn’t know when he’s being mocked.

\--

His apartment is a small one, on the top floor of a block in the city. A redbrick building surrounded by other redbrick buildings. There’s something gray and quiet living on the first floor, some vague almost-darkness that he’s sensed but never seen. He doesn’t think it’s a problem. It’s been there for a while, and it isn't causing harm anymore. And sometimes Castiel thinks, when he lets himself think about it at all, that if he could really see himself, he’d see something gray and quiet too.

Tracy is checking her mail when he walks into the lobby, so Castiel says hello. She stops to chat, about her job at the hospital, about the Gas-n-Sip. Tracy lives just down the hall. Castiel likes her. When she notices that he's a little slumped, a little tired, she just waves him on up the stairs.

In his apartment, he shuts the door and closes his eyes. Just a moment of relief. Then he goes to water the plants. He looks out the window in the living room, checking the bird feeder. There aren't any birds today, which isn’t a surprise, given the weather. The rain has turned to a drizzle now, at least. The street below is busy with cars.

Castiel’s bed is a double, more for his landlord’s advertising purposes than for any amount of common sense: it takes up almost the entire room. But it’s comfortable, and it's warm, and it’s infinitely better than his old sleeping bag.

He should really do some laundry, but the basement feels a very long way away. He takes off his shoes, then his jacket and jeans, and he lies down.

\--

The days pass, as they have been doing.

“Lord of the Rings,” Dean says one morning, in lieu of any kind of greeting. Nora, working to their left, glances over.

Castiel recently explained to Dean that he hasn’t watched television very often before. Dean seems to have taken it as some sort of challenge.

“I’ve read the books,” Castiel offers. He did, years and years ago, in a library somewhere, a place that he doesn’t remember.

“Hey, me too.” Dean grins. “They’re good. The movies are, too, though.”

“Long,” Castiel says. “From what I’ve heard.”

“Worth it,” Dean tells him firmly. He pays for his gas. There’s someone behind him, a man waiting with a large bottle of Dr. Pepper. “See you later,” Dean says, and then looks – embarrassed? Castiel blinks, confused by this, but he nods.

He thinks about going to the library nearby, to the DVD section there.

When he’s finished with the other customer, he notices Nora looking at him, eyebrows raised. She seems amused. Castiel looks back for a moment.

“Do you want me to start the new delivery?” he asks. There’s a pause, Nora smiling, and he feels strangely on edge, strangely uncomfortable.

But then Nora just says, “That'd be great. I can help in a few minutes.”

\--

Shifts can seem endless, hours basically infinite, but sometimes a few weeks pass and Castiel is surprised to realize that they have. It’s September, somehow, and Ava is leaving for Massachusetts at the end of the week. Castiel signs a card for her, and he puts $5 towards her going away present. _I hope you have a wonderful time_ , he writes, and Nora gets Ava some bath products.

Dean is in the store at lunch. He’s had a bad morning. A stressful meeting, and something else that he’s vague about, waving a hand, making a face.

“I think I’m just gonna stay here,” he says to Castiel. “I’m just gonna camp out here ‘til Turner retires, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says. He looks around the store, considering. “You can pretend to watch the football, if you like.”

Castiel pretends to watch fairly often. Generally when he’s working with Harry.

Dean laughs, which is nice. “Thanks, dude. Good call.”

The light above the coffee machine starts flickering. Castiel glances up, startled. It’s been a while. He’d almost forgotten. He watches it carefully until it stops, but he still doesn’t sense anything around it. It just seems like a light.

When he turns back, Dean isn’t watching the football; he’s looking right at Castiel, and there’s something odd about his expression.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, feeling kind of awkward. “It's always doing that.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Okay.” He opens his mouth, but then he closes it and looks at the television instead. “So,” he says, nodding his head at the game. "How ‘bout them Broncos, huh?”

Castiel laughs. Just a quiet laugh, surprised, more a huff of air. But Dean turns around to look at him, and grins as though he’s pleased.

It’s Ava’s final shift the next day. Castiel is working with her, but Nora stops by to bring her present and say goodbye. Ava opens the present and card, and she gives Nora a hug. Then she gives _Castiel_ a hug, and he's a little too surprised to respond. But Ava doesn’t notice, or mind, and only says, “You look after yourself, Cas.” Like a command.

“You, too,” Castiel says, which makes her roll her eyes.

\--

Nora’s hired someone to replace Ava, but he quits after his first shift. Castiel never even meets him. He has to pick up a lot of his hours, though, while Nora finds somebody else. Castiel starts working more shifts with Harry, which is regrettable, and quite a few with the part-time staff, who he doesn’t know that well. It means more money, he reminds himself, when his back is aching and his feet are sore, when a customer’s broken the slushie machine and bright blue slushie's ran right under the nachos display. Or when he’s just spent most of his day with Harry, and Harry’s talked endlessly about a girl who he doesn’t really seem to like, but still wants to date. Castiel assumes the girl has more sense, but he worries all the same.

Dean is still visiting the Gas-n-Sip. But Castiel hasn’t had a chance to see his recent movie suggestions, and lately he isn’t very good at thinking of things to say. He thinks that Dean might seem disappointed. Probably not, though. And even if he is, Castiel doesn’t know how to fix that. He also thinks that Dean looks tired these days, but that’s not really something he can say.

Every time Castiel finishes a shift, he just doesn’t feel like getting groceries, or buying new shoes, or going to the library, even though it’s only a few streets from his apartment. He only wants to lie on his couch and watch whatever’s on TV, or else he wants to sleep.

One morning, he doesn’t even notice that it’s Dean who's paying for gas. Not until he looks up, ready to end the transaction.

“Dean,” Castiel says, stupidly. “Hello.” He feels embarrassed, or rude. Possibly both.

“Hey,” Dean says, his expression creasing. “You okay there, man?”

Castiel tries not to wince. “I'm fine,” he says. Dean nods, slowly. He doesn’t say anything else. He looks really tired, Castiel thinks. He's always looking tired. “Are _you_ okay?” he asks.

Dean huffs. “Yeah.” He doesn’t seem to mean it, though. He looks around the store. He stares, hard, at the light above the coffee machine, and then glances at the woman standing behind him. Then he seems to sigh. Quietly, mostly with his shoulders. “Look, uh – see ya,” he says.

“Oh." Castiel feels strange: dull and sad. “Bye.”

Dean doesn’t show up over the next few days.

\-- 

Nora keeps the local news on when she’s working. One morning, Castiel glances over while he’s restocking the sodas, and he sees that there’s been an accidental death at Sandover Automotive.

He goes very still. He breathes carefully, in and out.

His eyes feel too wide, fixed on the screen, and then a picture appears, the company's staff picture of the man who died. He's skinny and brown-haired, wearing a yellow shirt. He isn’t Dean.

It might be terrible, to feel relieved. Someone has still died. And it isn't like Castiel really knows Dean. He hasn’t even seen him, these last few days. But he is so, so relieved.

\--

On Friday, Nora lets him know that she’s managed to hire someone new.

“That’s good,” Castiel says. Lately, in between serving customers, he’s been imagining ridiculous things. Things like lying down on the floor by the counter. Curling up and sleeping, and ignoring anyone who wants to buy gas, anyone who wants to shout at him because the coffee isn’t very good.

“You’ve been a lifesaver,” Nora is telling him. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“That’s okay,” Castiel says, but she shakes her head. She looks concerned.

“Cas,” she says. “Listen, it’s up to you, but do you want the weekend off? You've more than earned it. I’ll be doing training, and Krissy wants more hours lately anyway. It’s totally doable. If you want?”

Castiel stares at her. “Oh,” he says. He doesn’t really take vacation. He’s always needed the money too much, while he’s been working here. But he supposes that he’s earned a lot this month. And he’s working late tonight. It would be nice to think that he could be finished after that, for just a couple of days. “Thanks,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Nora smiles, and squeezes his shoulder.

\--

It’s almost time to close. The sky is dark, the rain and wind are loud outside. The Gas-n-Sip’s been empty for the last twenty minutes, and that's when Dean shows up.

Castiel stares. It’s well after midnight. Dean looks very strange.

“Hey,” Dean says. He walks up to the cash register and looks down at the candy beside it. He drums his fingers against the counter.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks.

Dean smiles, but it twists, it falls away.

Dean has always had a bright presence. Gold and warm. Some people do. Castiel usually copes with this okay.

But tonight, it’s dimmed and faded. It’s like a candle almost going out. “Dean,” Castiel says. He wants to do something. He wants to help. But that never, never goes well.

Dean looks up at him, though, and his eyes are searching. “So,” he says. His voice is trying to lilt, Castiel thinks, he’s trying to sound like he’s telling a joke. “Stupid question for you, Cas.” Dean draws in a breath. He shrugs his shoulders, a jerky movement. “Have you ever thought there might be ghosts?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case fic aspect of this (if you can call it that!) is obviously very 4.17-based, but just to clarify, it's the only part of the fic that will be. :) 
> 
> And while I'm writing notes, thank you to everyone who's left feedback! I really appreciate it. <33

Dean thinks that his office is haunted. 

He tells Castiel about the coldness in the building, the problems with the lights. About the man who died at Sandover, and how Dean doesn’t think it was an accident.

And he tells him about tonight, working late, when the entire building had suddenly felt frozen. Dean had stood up and walked to his door. Then there’d been a rush of sound somewhere below him, and he'd just gotten out of there.

Now he’s standing at the counter, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he says. “You think I’m losing it, right? I’m losing it.”

“I don’t think that,” Castiel says. “I believe you.” 

It’s probably too late for coffee, so he makes Dean a hot chocolate with one of the sachets Nora keeps in the back. The ones she says anybody can use. He pours it into a coffee cup, carefully fitting on a lid. Dean stares at the drink, and stares at Castiel, and he takes it as though it’s something strange, something valuable. Then he leans against the counter and drinks it slowly, while Castiel starts closing up the store.

“No one else was there,” Dean says. “It was late. I was the only one in the office.” 

“That’s good,” Castiel says. And then, because Dean still looks uncertain, “It was a good idea to leave.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He nods, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah, it was. I mean, what else was I gonna do, right?” 

The question catches at Castiel. There’s an answer, one that he knows the shape of, just about. But he suddenly feels like he’s hovering at the edge of something: something dark, something that’s been sleeping, and that still is, for now. 

Or else it’s there, just of sight, and he usually knows better than to look.

Castiel is a sales associate. That’s what he is now, and he has been for a while. He works at the store, covers shifts, babysits for Nora when she’d like an evening out. He keeps out of the way. Doesn’t make things worse.

He closes the cash register and rests his hands on the counter. Just for a moment, to breathe.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says to Dean, because it’s harmless, and it’s true.

Dean stares at him. “Thanks,” he says. His mouth shifts sideways, a tentative smile, another of his soft, half-questioning looks. “Hey, me too,” he adds, and there’s warmth again, gold and steady. Almost how Dean usually is. And like always, Castiel doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t do anything stupid.

The Gas-n-Sip door opens, then. They both jump, just a little, but it’s only the dark spirit, wearing its light brown coat. It’s an occasional customer now. It closes the door and looks slowly between Dean and Castiel. Castiel feels his old cautiousness rise, but the spirit only wants more Marlboro Reds.

It leaves them, afterwards, walking back out into the rain. Castiel locks the door behind it, flipping the sign to Closed. Dean is twisting at the lid of his coffee cup, his face thoughtful. Castiel lets him think. He imagines that the last few weeks have been difficult.

When the store is ready, Castiel looks over once again. Dean nods, making a slight movement towards the door, like he’s showing his willingness to leave.

“One minute,” Castiel says. He goes into the back, getting his umbrella, his wallet and phone. He pulls on his waterproof jacket, unsure what's going to happen next. This isn’t exactly a situation he has protocol for.

But what happens next is this: Dean looks for a long moment at Castiel’s coat, and at his umbrella. His expression goes a little strange. 

There’s a low rumble of thunder outside.

“Dude,” Dean says. “Do you want a ride home?”

\--

Castiel shuts up the Gas-n-Sip, the rain falling hard, soaking his hair and clothes, making him fumble. But he gets it done, and then Dean’s unlocking his car and they’re rushing to get in. Their doors click shut, one after the other. They sit for a moment, catching their breath.

The storm is pelting against the car, drumming down on the windshield in front of them. It’s heavy all around, the street lights illuminating patches of the downpour, strange waves of water, blown by the wind. But inside the car, it’s sheltered and dark. A small bubble, separate from the world outside. It almost feels as though they’re in a different place entirely. Somewhere that isn’t the city around them, or the empty Gas-n-Sip parking lot. Somewhere quiet.

It’s nice, Castiel thinks. It is also still cold. His coat has never been particularly good at keeping in the warmth.

Beside him, Dean turns on the engine. He sits there, letting the heater pick up, not moving.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks him. He thinks probably not. It’s probably a stupid question. But he asks anyway.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I’m good.” He looks away, out the windshield. He taps a hand against his leg. Once, twice. “There was something,” he says, after a while. “When I was kid. Like a ghost or whatever, only not. And I always thought, you know. I was just young. I was imagining shit.” He raises his eyebrows. “Probably not, though, huh.”

Castiel says, quietly, “Maybe not." And he adds, though he isn't sure why, "I’m sorry.”

Dean sighs. “No, don’t be – don’t be sorry.” He shakes his head, like he's clearing it of something. “But, still. This thing at Sandover. It’s kind of fucked up, right? Knowing that it’s still there.” 

Castiel nods. He looks down. He pulls at a fraying thread on his jeans. He knows what he needs to say. What he’s been planning on saying. The words are still difficult. “Do you want to try and get rid of it?”

He feels, more than sees, Dean turn to face him. “Get rid of – the thing,” Dean says, slowly. “The ghost.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says. 

There’s a silence. It feels heavy. Castiel keeps his gaze narrow, studying his hands. 

“That light in the store,” Dean says, finally. “That messed up one, the other week.”

That’s all he says. After a moment, Castiel chances a look his way. Dean’s staring, intent. Waiting.

Castiel tries a smile, just one side of his mouth. Kind of sheepish.

“Shit,” Dean says. He laughs, a little shakily. “I _knew_ you knew something. The way you looked at it, man. And I mean, the entire office has fucked up lights right now. I wanted to say something, you know? I wanted to ask you. But I was thinking, no, don’t be an idiot, don’t fuck this up.”

Castiel thinks that over and frowns. “Fuck what up?”

“Uh,” Dean says. He blinks. “I just meant - I didn’t want you thinking I was a freak, you know?”

“Oh.” The idea of that makes Castiel sad. It’s something he can understand. “I don’t," he says, and Dean glances at him.

"Thanks,” he says, wry. He moves a hand along his jaw, looking thoughtful. “So. You’ve dealt with this shit before?”

Castiel shouldn’t be surprised by the question. But the discomfort is back, twisting tight. Like a warning.

“Um,” he says. “Kind of.” 

“All right,” Dean says. “Cool. I’ve been googling shit, lately. Ghost stuff, I don’t know. And there are sites about this, there’s shit about – salt, and iron. Blessings.”

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean’s gaze, trained on him, is questioning. Too much so. “Dean, I haven’t – I’ve never done _this_ before. Specifically. But I’ve… heard similar things. Iron, burning remains.” He pauses, trying to think. “You’d need to discover who the ghost is, I think. Cut its ties to the building.” He presses his lips together. This is a bad idea. He knows that this is a bad idea. “I could help,” he says. “If you wanted.”

Dean looks so grateful. Castiel feels kind of bad about that.

“Yeah?” Dean says. “Yeah, that’d be – that’d be great, actually.” He looks out of the windshield, one hand resting on the bottom of the steering wheel. “Okay,” he says. “So. We figure out who the ghost is, we figure out how to go after it. Then we go after it. That’s the plan?”

Castiel nods. “That’s the plan," he says. 

When Dean puts it like that, he thinks, it doesn’t sound too difficult. It sounds like it could go all right. 

“Okay,” Dean says. And then, with another shaky laugh, “Thank fuck you were working tonight, dude. Jesus Chist.”

Castiel glances over at him. He isn't sure how to respond to that. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose Harry might not have believed you.”

Dean only rolls his eyes. He puts the car into gear.

There’s a peaceful kind of silence as Dean drives. Once Castiel has given directions, there’s nothing for him to do but watch the rain, watch the street lights and the buildings pass by. It’s nice of Dean to drive him home, he thinks. Especially after the day Dean’s had, the worry that he’s been dealing with lately. Dean seems to be that sort of person, though. He had waved off Castiel’s thanks as though it didn’t matter at all. 

Castiel leans his head against the headrest, turning to the side. He’s feeling a little drained; he’s feeling glad of his weekend off. He focuses on the storm, and the street beyond it seems to blur, indistinct and dark. The rainfall is solid and continual, a soothing sound. The heater has warmed up, and Dean is humming very quietly, a song Castiel doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if he’s meant to hear. But it’s nice. The world feels like it's drifting calmly, for once. There’s a thick black sludge sliding down the window, filling up the car.

Castiel jerks backwards, jolting awake.

He blinks, and breathes in, and the car is fine. There’s nothing, just the heater, just the weather outside. It was a dream. 

They’re stationary now, parked on Castiel’s street. Dean has stopped humming. He doesn't remember falling asleep. 

“Hey,” Dean says. He looks strange, almost unhappy, but then his expression smooths back out. “This is you.”

\--

Dean will be busy tomorrow, helping out a friend. He wants to meet up afterwards, though. Castiel agrees. It would be best to get rid of the ghost as soon as possible, after all.

“I could, uh,” Dean says. “I could text you when I’m free?”

“All right,” Castiel says. And then he finds himself putting his number into Dean’s phone. Dean watches this very carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Castiel says, and Dean lifts his hand, holds it up in goodbye.

Inside his apartment, Castiel hangs up his coat and then stands by the window. He looks out at the street lights, at the headlamps of the occasional passing car. He tries not to think about the dream.

The ghost at Sandover killed somebody. It could’ve killed _Dean_. There’s nothing wrong with trying to stop that.

He shuts the kitchen blinds and walks into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, slow and methodical, and he thinks about Dean, who had been so surprised by the drink Castiel made him, who had offered him a ride home as though it were no trouble at all. He thinks about what Dean had said. _I didn’t want to fuck this up._

Castiel puts away his toothbrush, and he stares at himself in the mirror. It isn’t something that he usually does. It is something that he doesn’t particularly like. But tonight he looks, and he can see that his face is just a face. There's nothing hidden, nothing dark. He knows that. He knows, logically, that nothing he’s doing right now will change it.

He is surprised, though, by his reflection. By his hair, which has grown longer than he’d realized, and by the bags under his eyes. Like faint bruises. He touches one with his hand, and blinks, slowly.

It’s late. Tomorrow, he can go to the library and research Sandover, but for now, he can go to bed.

He falls asleep straight away that night, and his dreams are nothing dangerous. 

\--

Dean arrives at Castiel’s apartment the next evening. He’s in a pair of jeans and a black plaid shirt, and it’s different, Castiel thinks, to his work clothes. A different look. Castiel is mostly the same, just his old hoodie instead of the Gas-n-Sip vest. He tugs at the zip, for no particular reason.

Dean has brought along a duffle bag and Chinese takeout.

“Ghostbusting gear,” he says, with surprising enthusiasm, and he drops the duffle by the couch. “Salt, lighters, iron piping. And dinner.” He holds up the takeout. 

Castiel blinks. The food smells very good. “You didn’t have to,” he says. Although he realizes, belatedly, that his kitchen doesn’t actually have much in the way of food. He'd spent most of the day in the library, and after that, he'd been finishing laundry, cleaning his apartment. It had all needed doing. But the takeout is kind of a relief.

“Least I could do, right?” Dean says. Castiel puts the takeout bags on the coffee table, and Dean glances around the living room. “Dude,” he says. He walks towards Castiel’s bookshelf, and Castiel stands by the couch, watching uncertainly. “Hey, this is awesome,” Dean says, one hand on the edge of a shelf. He sounds surprised, pleased. He looks over the stacks of books, the pictures and plants, the stones and coins. They’re just things that Castiel has liked, while he’s been here. Things he’s brought home and needed to put somewhere. The bookshelf is very crowded. He knows that. But Dean seems to like it. He turns back to Castiel and grins. “Very cool.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says, and he smiles back. He isn’t used to having visitors. It’s strange, but he thinks that it’s all right. “Would you like a drink?” he asks Dean.

He gets them both glasses of water, and they eat the takeout on the couch. Castiel tells Dean about the research he did that morning, and shows him the pages he got from the library.

“Print outs,” Dean says. “Old school.” Castiel narrows his eyes, kind of confused, a little suspicious, and Dean looks away, smiling down at one of the papers. 

Castiel thinks, and Dean agrees, that the ghost in question is the original founder of the company. Sandover celebrated an anniversary the other month, and to commemorate, their HR team created a display of the company’s history. The display has a timeline and some memorabilia, and there’s a lot of background on the founder, P.T Sandover. This history, though, skirts around the fact that P.T. Sandover was, as Dean puts it, basically shafted when it came to selling the company. The buyers kept his name, but they didn’t let him keep much else.

It seems like a motive to Castiel. It seems like the building would be a place Sandover would be angry to return to.

“Yeah," Dean says, when Castiel suggests this. "And check it out." He points to a photo of the display, indicating something small and blurry. Castiel can’t really see it, but Dean is excited. “Those are his old driving gloves. They’re on display, I see them all the time. Definitely his. Do you think that’s it? It's the gloves tying him to the building?”

Castiel thinks it over. “It does fit,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, it does. I mean, shit’s been kicking off since the anniversary, no question. Nothing beforehand, fuckton of weird afterwards. It’s gotta be this, right?”

Castiel nods. It makes sense. "We'll just need to get into the building, then, and burn the gloves.” He slides a glance at Dean. “You know, people might notice if that happens." 

Dean gives him a look. 

“Yeah, you know, they might." He rolls his eyes, but it's somehow nice, Castiel thinks. Dean says, "Don’t worry, I’ll get us in late. And I’ve got a few old pairs of gloves in my office, too. We can swing by, grab some to switch out. They’ll look the same.”

“You have driving gloves?” Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. “Hey, they’re cool. I have loads of geeky car stuff, dude. I work for an automotive company.”

“Geeky car stuff,” Castiel echoes. “That’s nice.” He suddenly imagines Dean with a bookshelf in his office, full of driving gloves and Matchbox cars and old-fashioned license plates.

Dean leans over and elbows his arm. “What’re you smiling about, huh?” He’s trying to sound insulted, but he is also clearly struggling not to smile. 

“I’m just thinking,” Castiel says, and Dean snorts. 

It’s necessary, then, to glance away, to try and get a handle on his own expression. Castiel knows that it would be useful to focus on the problem at hand. But it’s difficult, with Dean trying to catch his eye like that.

\--

Things go fairly smoothly, at first. They get into the building, and everything is calm as Dean leads the way to his office. Inside, while he looks for the gloves, Castiel gets a little distracted. Dean’s desk is decorated with photos and small figurines. It’s interesting. 

Castiel recognizes Han Solo and C-3PO now, but he’s mostly looking at the photos. There's Dean at various ages, with various people, in front of his car, in front of a house. 

“That’s my brother,” Dean says, and Castiel startles a little. He hadn’t realized Dean was behind him. He feels embarrassed, like he’s been prying, but Dean only points to a man in one of the photos. “Sam. And that’s Bobby, he’s kind of an uncle.”

It’s nice, seeing these photos. Castiel doesn’t really know much about Dean. Not beyond his taste in films. The photo with Bobby, on the porch of a house, has a younger-looking Dean in it, a younger-looking Sam. “You’ve known him a long time?” Castiel asks. 

“Most of my life. We lived with him a lot, growing up.” Dean looks as though he’s going to say more, reaching to point to another picture, but then he stops, and says, “Oh, right, I found the gloves.” And Castiel remembers that they do in fact have a purpose here. There is a reason he’s carrying iron piping.

They’re quiet, once they leave the office. More alert. Dean leads the way through the corridor and down a stairwell, and they arrive at a reception desk on the second floor. The display is just beside it. Castiel glances around the darkened room, at the empty desks and cubicles, the doorway to the corridor. But there’s nothing else here. Dean opens the container that holds the gloves. He takes them out, dropping his in instead, and the room goes cold.

Castiel lets out a breath, and it's like white smoke in front of him.

“Oh,” Dean says. "Super." He flicks open the lighter in one quick movement. 

The ghost is hovering in the doorway.

“There,” Castiel says, keeping his voice steady. 

Dean looks up. He looks right at Sandover and says, “What? Where?” He shoots Castiel a strange look.

And Castiel feels a rush of alarm. Like he’s made a mistake. Said something he shouldn’t have. It's not an unfamiliar feeling.

“Uh,” he says, stupidly, keeping an eye on Sandover, who is eerie and half-formed, and apparently only something that Castiel’s sensing right now. When he glances back, he’s relieved to see that Dean has put the gloves on the floor, and is crouching down, hurriedly setting them alight.

And then the lights flicker, and Sandover is bright and clear and rushing right towards them. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says, and Dean says, “Oh, shit, _there_ ,” which is good, at least. He clambers to his feet, and they both raise the iron pipes, moving to protect the gloves. The ghost races for them.

Dean swings. He catches it in the face, and it vanishes, the lights flaring, an angry sound ripping through the room. There’s a brief, tense silence, and then Sandover appears again, just in view behind them. 

Something hits Castiel before he can turn around. An invisible force, like a wave. 

He’s thrown across the room, stumbling, crashing to the ground. A moment later, Dean thuds down beside him. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean hisses, and Sandover is heading for the gloves. Dean and Castiel are too far away, they're not even standing, and Castiel can imagine exactly what will happen after this, can just picture the ghost lunging for Dean. He knows iron can only do so much. 

It was Castiel who suggested this. This was his idea.

He throws the iron piping. 

It hurtles through the air, spinning a little, off balance from Castiel’s awkward angle on the ground. He thinks, dully, _it’s going to miss_. But it doesn’t. It flies right through the ghost. 

There’s a shriek, there’s a light bulb bursting, and Sandover disappears. 

The gloves burn up on the ground, covered by the flames. There is a long stretch of quiet.

“Huh,” Dean says, finally. “Nice aim.” He laughs, amused, relieved. And then he says, “Wait, fuck, we gotta put out that fire.”

\--

Afterwards, they’re sitting in Dean’s car again, a decent distance from Sandover. It isn’t raining tonight. It’s cool outside, the night fresh and clear, the stars visible overhead. Castiel looks up at them, all across the sky. He thinks, that actually went all right. That went okay. 

It didn’t go wrong.

“Cas," Dean says, and Castiel looks over. Dean smiles at him and says, “I’m thinking celebration drinks?”


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel doesn’t go to bars very often. The last time was on Ed’s leaving night, a few months ago now. He sat with Nora and Ava, and whenever Ed or Harry said something particularly tiring, Ava turned slowly to look at Castiel, widening her eyes.

This isn’t like that at all. Dean is sitting opposite him, and they’re at a table in the corner of the bar. A song’s playing that Castiel doesn’t know, something by a country singer, and Dean is smiling down at his drink. 

Earlier, on the way here, Dean had spoken quietly. “You saw that ghost,” he’d said. “Before me – before I could see it.” He’d sounded like it was something he’d been thinking about. Something he’d been wanting to say.

Castiel had gone still. He’d tried not to panic. He’d thought about lying, but he knew he’d never been any good at that. 

“Yes,” he’d said, instead. And then, slowly, reluctantly, “Sometimes, I can - see things like that. I don’t know why.”

Then he’d waited anxiously through the silence that followed, everything inside him wound tight, until finally Dean had just said, “Huh. Okay. All right.” Like it _was_ all right. Like it was strange, but it didn’t matter, not really. And then he’d still wanted to come here, to celebrate with Castiel.

Now, Dean talks about work, about how everyone will think the lights finally got fixed over the weekend. He’s speaking a little more softly than usual, not always quite looking at Castiel, smiling a lot with one side of his mouth. He’s tapping his foot.

Castiel is having a nice time. 

“It’s a shame they don’t know what really happened,” he says to Dean. “They could give you a raise.” 

He mostly says that to see if Dean will laugh.

Dean grins; he points his beer bottle at Castiel. “Man, they totally should. We saved their asses, they don’t even know.” He takes a drink, then sets the bottle down, tipping it forward slightly like he’s going to read the label. “Not like they’d believe me, though.” 

“No,” Castiel says. “Maybe not.” He has a drink. It tastes all right. He doesn’t drink beer very often, really. “Someone else may have thought the building was haunted, too,” he suggests. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. It isn’t as though it would make a difference, because it’s not the kind of thing Dean can just ask about. Not without risking strange looks, or insults, things that wouldn’t be good at work. 

But it’s an interesting idea to think about: other people being aware of these things, or of some of them, at least. Castiel thinks about it sometimes. When his customers are buying gas, or soda, or coffee, he’ll look at them, and wonder if they know. Even a little bit, even just part of what’s out there. When he’s walking to work or to the library, to the park or the thrift stores in the city, he’ll pass people and he’ll wish that he could just tell. That he could see it, the way that he sees the werewolves and the spirits, everything else that he’s never been able to miss.

It would certainly make things easier.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Dean is saying. He sounds like he actually means, I don’t think so. “No one I know, I’m pretty sure. And it’s not like I can send out an office memo, you know?”

“No,” Castiel agrees. “That might be unprofessional.”

Dean smiles, slowly. “Yeah, Cas,” he says. “It might be.” And his voice has that lilt to it, that way he draws out words that always makes Castiel pay very close attention. He feels inexplicably pleased, hearing it now.

“This is nice,” he says, without really thinking about it. Talking like this, when Castiel doesn’t have hours left to work, when they aren’t both about to deal with a ghost. It’s different. Castiel likes it.

Dean looks surprised, though. Castiel thinks that perhaps he’s said something wrong, but then Dean goes, “Yeah?” And his voice is kind of nervous. Like the question is important. Like the answer is important.

Castiel shrugs a shoulder, suddenly uncertain. “Yeah. I think it is.” 

Dean glances down at his drink. “Well,” he says, very casually now, turning the corners of his mouth down like a shrug of his own. “We could always do it again sometime.” 

\--

Castiel frowns at the Gas-n-Sip’s shelves. There isn’t that much selection. He’s been thinking that today. It’s been all right for Castiel, but it wouldn't be ideal for other things, like if somebody wanted to make a proper meal. 

“Cas,” Hannah says, from across the store. “Am I about to break this thing?”

He looks over. She’s almost laughing, holding a part of the slushie machine that’s halfway out of its casing. 

“Ah,” Castiel says. “Yes.” 

She does laugh, then.

Hannah is new to the store, hired by Nora last week. She seems nice. Cheerful. She’s told Castiel about how she’s just moved to the area, how she’s living with her sister for a while. She’s said Nora seems like a good boss, and Castiel’s told her he agrees.

He shows her how to take the machine apart, how to refill the different flavors.

“Don’t worry,” he says afterwards, as she frowns at the instructions on the side. “Those don’t really make sense.”

“Yeah,” Hannah says. “No kidding. I guess you just get used to it?”

“You get used to it,” Castiel confirms. Perhaps a little heavily, because it makes Hannah smile.

“Hey, are you working tomorrow?” she asks. “Or am I with Harry?” She says _Harry_ with a slight edge; it’s barely there, barely distinguishable, but it’s one that Castiel hears, loud and clear. 

“I’m working,” he says, and Hannah makes an exaggerated expression of relief.

\--

Dean shows up one lunchtime. When he walks in, Castiel is busy explaining to a man that their half-price offer on nachos extends only to the nachos, and not, in fact, to the hot dogs too. But as he explains, he becomes very aware of Dean, and of the face that Dean is making behind the customer’s back.

“This is ridiculous,” the man says. “I’ve got this hot dog now, I’m _holding_ this hot dog. What, the Gas-n-Sip can’t afford the extra buck?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel tells him, to avoid actually having to address any of that. He determinedly doesn’t look at Dean’s expression. He doesn’t think his customer would appreciate it if he were attempting not to laugh just now.

After the man has begrudgingly paid and left, Dean steps forwards, setting one hand on the counter. He’s holding a white paper bag.

“What a dick,” he says, offhand. Castiel does smile a little, now. He glances down, shaking his head; Nora is over by the computer, and he doesn’t know what she’d think of him agreeing.

“How are you?” he asks Dean. Dean looks better than he has. Less tired, more animated. It’s nice to see.

“I’m good,” Dean says. “Doing good. I was thinking – you get a lunch break soon?”

Castiel frowns, slow to catch on, until Dean holds up the bag and adds, “I, uh, brought bear claws. If that helps.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. He looks at the bag in surprise. “I see. I – I can now, I think,” and he turns to Nora, ready to double check. 

“You can now,” she confirms, before he can ask, her eyes still on the computer. She looks a little amused. Castiel thanks her, and when he looks back, Dean is smiling too. 

Castiel decides to leave that be. 

“Would you like some nachos?” he asks Dean. It seems unbalanced that Dean has bought him first the Chinese food, and now these bear things. Castiel wants to buy him something, too.

“Hey, thanks,” Dean says. He grins, bright with energy. “You know, dude, I hear they’re half-price.”

Castiel just looks at him, as flatly as he can manage. 

It’s a nice day outside for once, just a little cold. So Castiel puts on his hoodie and buys them both coffee and nachos, and they go to sit on the low brick wall that runs along the side of the store. It’s the one where people go to smoke, or where families sit sometimes, eating Gas-n-Sip sandwiches while they take a break from their car journeys. Castiel has thought, before, that the store should invest in a picnic bench.

They sit fairly close, trying to stay warm. Their coffee cups are on either side of them, the nachos boxes on their laps. Dean talks about his morning, about how one of his co-workers really had commented on the lights finally being fixed. And then, a few moments later, someone else had asked Dean why he was ‘smiling like that’.

“Awkward,” Dean says, his eyebrows raised, and Castiel laughs a little, looking down.

“It sounds it,” he agrees. “I’m glad things are better, though.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “What about you, you having a good week?” He nudges Castiel’s arm, jostling the nachos box a little.

Castiel thinks about it. “Yes,” he says. “It’s all right.”

“All right,” Dean echoes. Castiel glances his way, and Dean is smiling. 

They eat for a while, quiet and comfortable. 

At one point, Dean says, suddenly, “Hey. Have you seen Back to the Future? The movie.” 

“No,” Castiel tells him. “I’m sure everybody has,” he adds, and Dean opens his mouth and closes it, pressing his lips together.

“Okay, Cas,” he says. “All right, man.” Castiel smiles. Then Dean says, “They’re actually showing it at that retro movie place on Friday. Eight o’clock? Unless, uh, you’re working. Or busy.”

Castiel looks ahead for a moment, focusing on the side of the store. The sign about littering. The strange line of grafitti, a long black mark. “You’re asking me to go with you,” he says at last, when he is almost sure that he hasn’t misunderstood.

“Uh,” Dean says, uncertainly. And then, very certainly, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m asking you out. You know. If you want to.”

Dean is studying his coffee now, as though it’s something important, something that is very much holding his attention. Castiel feels strange. Surprised. This isn’t something that he does, not usually. It isn’t something that he really considers for himself. And there’s a part of him that is sure it’s a bad move. But that part of him is always thinking that. It thought the same thing about the ghost. And it's Dean who's asked him this. This is Dean’s idea. 

He nudges Dean back, just gently. “I’d like that,” he says, and he means it.

Dean looks over, seeming surprised himself. “Yeah?” he says. “Okay. Awesome. You, uh, you had me worried there.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “I didn’t mean to.”

Dean smiles at him. “I know.” And something in his expression, in his tone, is… fond, Castiel thinks. It reminds him of how he’s felt himself, when Dean has been talking about a film, all enthusiasm, cutting himself off, shaking his head, saying things like, _wait, wait, I won’t spoil that part._

Castiel is a little struck by this realization. He tries not to stare. 

“You won’t be working?” Dean asks him.

“Only until four,” Castiel says, and Dean nods, once, and says, “All right. Cool.”

\--

After his shift, Castiel walks through the city. He passes only people, as far as he can tell. Nothing different. He buys new shoes. Boots, rather than sneakers, because they’ll be better in the winter, and because he finds a cheap pair. He goes into a grocery store, the big one near the Laundromat he used to go to. He walks along the aisles and thinks about the recipes that he’s seen, the ones in the magazines Nora has at work. 

Then he goes to the park, for the first time in a while, and he wonders, vaguely, if Dean’s been.

\--

The movie theater is quite full, Castiel thinks. Considering Back to the Future is an old film. Also, considering _everyone_ has apparently already seen it.

He points this out to Dean, before the movie starts, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah, no,” he says. “It’s busy because it’s a classic, okay? I guarantee you that everyone here has seen it before.”

Castiel wonders if that’s true. 

He enjoys the film. They’re sitting near the back, in comfortable red seats. Castiel has a Coke and a box of popcorn, because Dean had informed him that he couldn’t see the movie without at least some kind of snack. Dean has popcorn of his own, but he keeps reaching over to steal handfuls of Castiel’s. Entirely unnecessarily. Castiel narrows his eyes the first time this happens, but Dean seems, very obviously, not to notice. So after a few instances, Castiel starts to return the favor. Stealing popcorn back. Dean keeps his gaze straight ahead, but Castiel sees him smile, wide.

The plot to the film is interesting, involving. But Castiel is still occasionally distracted by a quiet, overpowering sense of astonishment. He is looking at the screen, or sliding glances Dean's way during funny parts, but he’s thinking, at the same time, _how am I here_. Not even a question. Just a blank kind of wondering. 

They walk out to Dean’s car afterwards, the night dark and cool, and Dean is checking that Castiel liked the movie.

“It was very good,” Castiel tells him. And then, because he’s been thinking about it, “I wasn’t convinced by the time travel.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, no way, not having a time travel debate with you. That’s not gonna happen.” Then he pauses, and goes a little wide-eyed. “Unless – is that, like… is that, you know.” And he looks at Castiel in a way that seems significant. Also, incomprehensible.

“Is that like what?” Castiel asks, sensibly. 

Dean sighs, sounding put upon, and shakes his head. They’ve reached the car now, and he stops, turning so he can look properly at Castiel. “C’mon,” Dean says. “You know. Is it… something you can, I dunno, _see_?” 

Castiel doesn’t understand, until he does. And then he laughs, startled. “No,” he says, firmly. “That’s not – I don’t know anything about time travel, Dean. Just… I see spirits. Creatures. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “All right.” He looks a little sulky now, in a way that shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I’m new to this shit.”

“Right,” Castiel says. “Sorry.” He tries to stop smiling, but it is more than just this, more than just the idea of his having some sort of time travel expertise. It’s that Dean is here, asking about it, understanding that it might be possible. Acting as though what Castiel _can_ see is something that’s all right, something that’s perfectly okay with him.

Castiel is standing close to Dean. It isn’t difficult to reach out and take his hand. It just sort of happens. 

Then he is just there, looking down, his thumb moving slowly across Dean's. It’s warm, he thinks, stupidly. He blinks when Dean's other hand touches his side, moves up the dark blue shirt that Castiel is wearing tonight, the one he chose because Ava had seen it once and said, _Looking good, Cas._ Castiel looks up, and Dean’s hand moves again, curving against the side of Castiel's face. Dean’s fingers curl, just a little, in the back of Castiel's hair. Castiel draws in a breath.

“Hey,” Dean says to him.

“Hello,” says Castiel. He doesn’t know why. But he smiles again, suddenly hopeful, and Dean tilts his head slightly, Dean leans in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you stardustpaths for looking over this one for me! :)


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a good kiss. Castiel thinks so, anyway. He reaches forward, steadying himself against Dean’s side, and Dean's hand moves through his hair. It curls more tightly, and Castiel's breath catches, a sudden rush. He feels happy. About the evening, about the strangeness of it. About Dean. He finds himself smiling, just a little. Then kind of a lot, until Dean is drawing back slightly, looking down at Castiel’s mouth.

“Cas,” he says. Amused. 

“Sorry,” Castiel offers. He watches Dean smile back at him. Then Dean leans back in again, hand on his neck to kiss him brief and firm. Oh, Castiel thinks, and Dean is stepping back, moving away. There are crinkling lines by his eyes. Castiel looks at them, a little confusedly.

“All right,” Dean says, shaking his head. “C’mon.” He has his fond look again. He indicates the car. 

Dean is talkative on the drive back. Chatting about the film. He tells Castiel about seeing it with his brother when they were young, how the next day Sam sat in every car in their uncle’s yard.

“Didn’t make it to the future, though,” Dean says. His voice is wry, but his smile is softer than that. “He was a little grouchy about that one. I guess he figured, you know, that many cars in the yard, he’d have to find the right one.”

“Well,” Castiel says. “He would’ve needed to drive them, really. To get to the right speed.” Dean grins, and Castiel adds, “Your uncle likes cars too?”

“Yeah, he does,” Dean says. “He’s a mechanic. Mostly messes with junkers these days, but he’s got the salvage yard. I used to help him out there.”

Castiel smiles at that thought. He tries to imagine it, thinking about the photos in Dean’s office, Dean on the porch, very young. “That’s really nice,” he says, and Dean glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it was good.”

They fall quiet for a while. The radio’s on, too low to really hear. Dean is humming again. 

Dean’s been bright this evening. He’s been happy, practically sparking. He’s exactly this way as they reach Castiel’s street. And Castiel thinks, _Because of this._ A question. Another strange thing. _Because of me._

They draw up outside his apartment block.

“I’ll see you soon?” he says to Dean. He doesn’t exactly mean to. But he’s been thinking about it. 

Dean says, “Hey, definitely. I’ll text you.” He taps the steering wheel, two quick times, then glances down at it. Castiel decides that it’s probably okay to kiss him again. 

\--

He lets himself into his apartment afterwards, everything moving a little slow. His thoughts a little stumbling. He takes off his boots. He stands in the darkened entranceway, looking at the boots and thinking about the way that Dean had smiled at him. His hand in Castiel’s hair. Castiel had wanted to turn his head, to press more closely, to shut his eyes. Stupid things.

He remembers to move, to leave the boots and go into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, staring down into the sink, trying to let everything settle into some sort of sense. 

Dean had asked him to see the film. The evening had been Dean’s idea, and he had seemed pleased about it, the whole way through. 

And there are things in this city that are working out okay. Castiel’s job. His apartment, now. Even dealing with Sandover’s ghost.

Maybe this can be something, too.

 _I had a nice time_ , he thinks, frowning at the wall. And he thinks that Dean did, too.

Walking slowly to his bedroom, he decides that that’s okay.

\--

That night he’s brushing his teeth again, but then he isn’t anymore; he’s standing by the sink and watching it fill, the black sludge overflowing. He stares down at the sink, he stares at his hands, and he can't exactly breathe, he can't quite seem to manage it. He doesn’t want to look up, but he knows that he’s going to soon.

There’s a sound, low and strange, and he’s raising his head.

He wakes up, this time, before he sees anything. He's in his bed, lying on his back and breathing unsteadily, and the panic is so familiar that he clenches his fists. His room is dark and still around him. He tries to tell himself that the dream hasn't changed anything. It's all the same as the night before. He knows that.

The next day, though, he's relieved when Nora asks if he can help her out, if he can cover a few shifts. 

\--

Castiel gets texts from Dean, now. This is a new thing. He’ll sit down for his afternoon break and there’ll be one, waiting in his phone. _Coping with Harry okay?_

He sends replies. _Sort of. Are you coping with Turner?_ And other ones, stupid ones, like _I hope your morning went well_ , and _Good luck with your meeting_. Or _Do you like risotto?_ , when he's reading Nora’s magazines again. 

He keeps Dean’s messages, too. They steadily fill the inbox, along with Nora asking about shifts, and Hannah’s _Hey! :)_ , from when she texted Castiel her number. He likes having them there. They're a reminder for when he feels uncertain, they're something that cheers him up. When he wakes up from another dream. When he’s just sold gas to a man and his brother, but the brother was only a tulpa. One that looked like it might fade. 

Castiel has these days, sometimes. Days where the cash register breaks and everybody is angry about it, everybody is rude. Days where customers shout at Hannah or Nora, and Castiel has to try and stay calm. People and creatures come into the store, so completely worn and faded, drained and sad, and there’s never anything he can do about it. He has days where he checks his bank balance and knows, knows there’s enough, but he still worries. Days where just seeing the dark spirit makes him tired.

Dean has days like this, too. His own version of them. Castiel has seen it, over the time that he’s known him. 

Dean comes into the store on one of his lunch breaks. Castiel looks up from where he’s kneeling, carefully shelving the wine. 

“Oh,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

Dean’s eyebrows raise. He gives a weary smile. “That obvious, huh?”

Castiel does not say, _You aren’t as gold today_. He just waits for Dean to continue. Dean shrugs. “It’s no biggie.” 

Castiel stands, and tries not to grimace at the feeling in his knees. “You’re all right?”

“Yeah, just.” Dean makes a face. “I’m good. Just getting some snacks, seeing m– seeing you.” Dean likes to talk around things, Castiel has noticed. But when he frowns, Dean only shrugs again, so Castiel doesn’t press the issue. 

He doesn’t like this, though. He doesn't like seeing Dean gloomy and disappointed. 

“Are you free this evening?” he asks. “I could make you dinner.” 

Dean blinks. Possibly thrown by the conversational change. But then he says, “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m free.” He smiles, and Castiel is pleased about that. Dean says, “Thanks, man. Hey, you like cooking?”

“Um.” Lately, Castiel has certainly liked thinking about cooking. Nora talks about her family visiting sometimes, her mother and sister. Nora makes them meals, her sister brings desserts. “Yes,” Castiel says. “I think so.”

“Me too,” Dean tells him, and Castiel has a sudden jolt of panic that can only be described as _what if the risotto isn’t very good_.

\--

The risotto turns out well enough. Dean seems to enjoy it, anyway; he has another helping after his first. Castiel tries not to just watch him, with that happy feeling, the one that he’s been getting a lot lately. 

“I know that’s Sam’s busy,” Dean says later, when the food is finished. Their empty plates are on the coffee table, the television’s turned down, and Dean is talking about a phone call he had with his brother. “But Thanksgiving’s been the plan, you know? We’d go to Bobby’s, big family thing, Jo and Ellen too. I thought, you know – well, it would've been good to see him, I guess. But whatever. He's got a case. I get that.”

He’s frowning again though, his eyes a little distant. Castiel says, “I’m sure he wishes he could still come.” Dean just makes a humming sound, one that doesn't seem to mean anything, and Castiel wishes that he were better at this. He wishes that he were more helpful. “You’ve said he can see you for Christmas now?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, that’ll be good. And Thanksgiving’s still on, anyway. I’ll have a few days at Bobby’s, catch up with him. Get to meet Jody, too. His new lady friend.” He grins at Castiel now, eyebrows going up and down, making Castiel smile back. Then Dean says, “Hey, I’ll just grab these.” He reaches for the plates, and Castiel is fairly sure that might be _his_ job, but Dean’s already picking them up, taking them into the kitchen. “You going anywhere? For Thanksgiving?” he calls through the doorway.

“I’ll be working,” Castiel tells him. He’d offered to do the extra hours. He gets paid more on holidays, and he knows that Nora’s family will be visiting her.

“Oh, right,” Dean says, walking back through. “That sucks.” Castiel doesn’t really mind, though. He turns around to say so, and sees that Dean has paused at his bookshelf again. He’s smiling, a little crooked. Castiel follows his gaze to the corner of a shelf. Dean's looking at the green lighter, the one that he gave Castiel the night they dealt with the ghost. It’s sitting by a dollar coin and one of the plants.

Castiel turns quickly back around. He looks at the television, tries to focus on a commercial about a crime show. His face is much too warm. 

He’s surprised when Dean leans against the back of the couch, leans down right beside him. “You know,” he says, in Castiel’s ear, making Castiel blink. "You’ve never been to my place.”

Castiel glances over at him. “I haven’t,” he agrees. Dean huffs, and then he tilts his head, bumping against Castiel's in a gesture that’s somehow friendly.

“Well,” he says. “Do you want to sometime?”

\--

Saturday’s shift is very slow. 

Castiel tries to stay busy. During the lulls, when the store is quiet, he tops up the slushie dispensers and carefully rechecks the inventory. He cleans out the coffee machine, he sweeps and mops the back of the store, he refills the paper towels. 

At one point, standing thoughtfully behind the cash register, he catches Hannah watching him. Her eyes are wary. 

Hannah says, “Why are you looking at the freezers like that.”

Castiel frowns. “They need cleaning regularly." It only comes out a little defensive. He should get the gloves out, really. It might take a while but –

“Krissy and I cleaned them Thursday.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Okay.” 

He glances at the door. There’s no one outside, no one about to come in. A Saturday should not be so quiet, he thinks. 

Hannah is smiling. “You okay today?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you have plans this evening?

“What?” Castiel stares at her. “Yes.”

“With Dean?” 

Castiel finds himself frowning again. He has recently become aware that basically all of his co-workers know about Dean. He is in the store a lot, after all. And, according to Dean, they _haven’t exactly been subtle_. Dean had laughed far too much at Castiel’s expression when he’d told him that.

“Hannah,” Castiel says now, and she holds up her hands, like she’s backing off.

“You look nice today,” she adds quickly, smiling even wider.

“I’m going to straighten up the sodas now," Castiel tells her firmly. And then, as he walks away, “Thank you. So do you.” 

She laughs, but he expected that. 

\--

Castiel likes Dean’s apartment. It's spacious, with large windows and a wrap around couch. And it reminds him of Dean’s office in the nicest way: so many pictures and decorations. 

“That’s Charlie,” Dean is saying, because Castiel’s distracted by some photos again. There’s sort of a collage of them on Dean’s fridge. Dean is standing behind him, looking too. “I’ve known her since college.”

“And what’s this?” Castiel asks. “That’s you?” 

Dean says, “Uh.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, that one’s, uh – that’s LARPing?”

Castiel glances back at him. “I don’t know LARPing.” He looks at the picture again: Dean is in costume, possibly as a knight, with his friend Charlie and some others beside him.

“It’s, uh. Well, it stands for Live Action Role-Playing – you want a beer? They’re in the fridge.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Yes. Thank you.” He steps aside for Dean. “It’s like acting?”

“Um, kind of, yeah,” Dean says. “It’s just, you know, you dress up, make a day of it or whatever.”

He seems oddly flustered. Castiel looks uncertainly at his back. “Okay,” he says. “That sounds fun.”

He’s prepared to drop the topic, but Dean turns back to him, shutting the fridge. 

“Yeah?” he says. He looks at Castiel a little narrowly, as though he thinks he might be lying.

“Yes,” Castiel says, because he isn’t.

Dean considers this, and then nods. He gives one of his slow smiles, and he holds out a bottle, pressing it into Castiel’s hand. “All right, then,” he says. “Cool.”

They have burgers for dinner. Dean made them himself, and he seems pleased, and slightly embarrassed, at Castiel’s surprise over this. They’re very good. It’s nice, Castiel thinks, having Dean around his home, going around to Dean’s. He likes the balance, the exchange.

After dinner, Dean puts on a movie and gets them more beers, and Castiel starts feeling sleepy. He’s been working a lot of hours. He’s been getting tired again.

“Your couch is very comfortable,” he tells Dean. It’s a wide couch, too, with a lot of space, but Castiel and Dean have somehow ended up slumped together. Castiel likes it, though. Dean is warm and close. Castiel can rest against him. He can trace over the red plaid squares on Dean's shirt, the material soft.

Castiel should probably not have another beer.

“Yeah?” Dean says. He lifts his arm, fits it around Castiel’s shoulders. That's good, too. “You have a long day?” Dean asks him. 

“No,” Castiel lies. Dean makes a small, disbelieving sound. He rests his head against Castiel’s, just for a moment. Castiel shuts his eyes. He opens them again.

“You work too much, dude.”

“No,” Castiel says again, but kind of softly. He doesn’t want to talk about how much he works. “I don’t know what’s happening in this film,” he admits instead, and Dean laughs. He doesn’t try and explain. Castiel supposes that’s sensible, at this point.

Then Dean says, “Hey, Cas. You getting to see family at all over Thanksgiving?”

Castiel glances up. He doesn’t know where that question came from. He wonders, a little. But he thinks that he's feeling very relaxed, just now. He’s on Dean’s couch and possibly about to fall asleep on Dean’s shoulder, which is something he doesn’t think he’s done with anyone before. And Dean, when he talks about his family, talks so nicely of his brother, and of Bobby, but so far hasn’t mentioned his parents at all.

So Castiel says, “No.” And then he adds, “I had foster families, but I don’t see them now.” 

He feels a little nervous about that. He knows that there are things people don’t like to hear, things that make them uncomfortable. But Dean’s hand smooths across Castiel’s arm, back and forth, and he just says, “Okay. I was thinking, if you tell me your hours, I could call you on the day?”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “All right. Yes. Thank you.” 

He does fall asleep on Dean’s shoulder. But it isn’t his fault, as he explains when he wakes up again: Dean shouldn’t be so comfortable. Dean laughs at him, and then he says that Castiel can stay over, if he likes. 

“We can just crash,” Dean says. “I know you’re tired.” And Castiel is still not quite sure how he got here; he thinks that there must have been some sort of path, one that led from the Gas-n-Sip to the ghost to all of this, but he doesn’t know how he ever actually managed to follow it. 

He knows that he's glad of it, though, all the same.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel wakes up. Not from any dream this time, just a slow return to awareness. It’s still night. The room is quiet, and Dean is a dark shape beside him, his steady breathing the only real sound. Castiel blinks, heavily. He is maybe half-asleep still, and he’s thinking in a vague way, he’s thinking disconnected things. He has the day off tomorrow. Dean does. He needs to water the plants. He’d kissed Dean again, hands in Dean’s hair, careful, then more sure. Dean’s hands sliding down Castiel’s back, fitting them together, and after a while, Castiel had tried to convince himself that he wasn’t really that tired at all. 

He had been, though. He still is.

Memory foam, Castiel remembers, his hand curling on the sheets, and he pushes his face into the pillow, he falls back asleep.

\--

“Cas?”

But Castiel is sleeping. 

Warm and asleep. 

“Hey,” Dean murmurs. A tentative hand on his arm. “Cas.”

Castiel signals that he is sleeping via an unhappy sound.

He thinks that Dean laughs a little, which is not reassuring. The hand becomes less tentative. It becomes jostling.

Castiel frowns into the pillow. “It’s early.”

There’s a pause, and Castiel wonders if that’s the end of it, but then Dean says, “Dude. It is so not early.” He sounds far too pleased about that. “Come on. I can make us breakfast.” 

“Breakfast,” Castiel mutters, trying to convey through the word alone exactly what he thinks of that idea. Then he does wake up a little, the thought dawning that he’s being quite rude. But Dean is only laughing again.

“Oh my God,” he says. The balance of the mattress changes, Dean moving on the bed. “Do you like pancakes,” he whispers, right into Castiel’s ear, and Castiel starts, a jolt of surprise. He opens his eyes.

Dean is smiling down at him. There’s too much light in the room, and Dean is in the middle of it. “Morning,” he says, cheerfully. 

Castiel shifts slightly, rolling properly onto his back, and squints at him through the brightness. Dean’s sitting on the bed, still kind of leaning over Castiel. He’s wearing the gray t-shirt and plaid boxers that he slept in, and his hair is more unruly than usual, a patch sticking up at the side.

Castiel reaches out. He runs his hand through that patch, not flattening it down, but making it worse instead. He doesn’t know why; it isn’t something that he thinks through. But he smiles, seeing the effect. And a moment later he notices that Dean’s own smile has changed: it’s smaller, quieter, his eyes almost careful. Castiel stops. He feels a little caught by it, by the soft look on Dean’s face.

He is here, seeing this. He’s able to, it’s okay. The idea is still so surprising.

He’s feeling properly awake now, and he’s fast becoming aware of how close Dean is. How he is looking at Castiel like that, when Castiel doesn’t think anyone ever has before.

“Are you busy today?” he asks Dean. 

“Nope,” Dean says. “Nothing on.” He sits there and lets Castiel flatten his hair, mess it back up again. 

“Me neither,” Castiel remembers to say, after a while. “I’m not that tired anymore,” he adds, watching Dean curiously, moving his hand down and carefully along the hem of Dean’s t-shirt sleeve. Dean snorts.

“Cas,” he says, "you are one shining beacon of subtlety, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Castiel tells him, very seriously, because he thinks that it will make Dean laugh. It does. Then Dean is moving again, sudden and solid and pressing Castiel right down into the memory foam. There will be time for pancakes later, Castiel supposes, before he stops thinking about that at all. 

\--

He works the early shift on Thanksgiving. The walk to the Gas-n-Sip is dark and cold, and he keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, his face tucked down against the wind. It takes a few tries to get the key in the door, and he thinks about gloves, maybe, or a warmer coat. He knows that he thought about this last winter, too.

He gets into the store and turns on the coffee machine right away.

Harry shows up a few hours later. He’s working Thanksgiving, too. The day progresses, and Castiel learns that Harry isn’t happy about this. 

“The cigarettes are low,” Castiel says, looking up from the inventory check. Harry sighs. He rolls his eyes and puts his phone back into his pocket, far more dramatically than is necessary. 

They’ve been having a wonderful morning.

In between not working and complaining about almost every aspect of his job, Harry is very focused on the Thanksgiving meal that he’ll have later. 

“They’ve said they’re gonna wait for me, but like, I know Greg and Chase,” he’s saying now, apparently to Castiel. “Those guys won’t wait. There’ll be no sweet potato left, I can fuckin’ feel it.” 

Castiel hums distractedly, still going down the inventory. When he glances up, Harry is looking at him, unimpressed, and he wonders if he should have been paying more attention. 

“Sorry, dude,” Harry says. “We can’t all, like, live in the store, I guess.”

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, his mind alarmingly empty. And then he realizes that Harry is exaggerating. Harry is just making fun of him again, he isn’t – he doesn’t know about before.

Castiel relaxes. “Okay,” he says, because now that he understands, he has no particular interest in this conversation.

Harry seems confused. 

The rest of the shift goes all right. Customers are either particularly rude or particularly kind, as they always tend to be over the holidays. It can be fairly easy to predict, at least. Days like this seem to bring emotions to the forefront, and far more than usual, Castiel can see things when people walk in: angry sparks or warm contentment, empty gray or anticipation. He has a conversation with an elderly woman who calls him _dear_ , and who says that Castiel’s family must be looking forward to his return home today. 

“Thank you,” Castiel tells her, glad that she has a peaceful presence around her, and he thinks of Dean, who’ll be calling him late that evening.

It’s nice to think of Dean. Particularly when the customers are being what Dean would describe as _bitchy_. He arrived in Sioux Falls yesterday, and Castiel has been imagining him on the porch that he saw in the photograph, imagining him seeing his uncle and friends. Castiel wonders if Dean will be helping to make the Thanksgiving meal. He remembers Dean’s enthusiasm for the pancakes that he made, and Castiel thinks yes, he will.

His shift ends before Harry’s today, at four.

“Have a good Thanksgiving,” Castiel tells him, as he puts on his coat. 

“Oh. Thanks.” Harry sounds oddly surprised. “Uh, you too.”

Castiel decides to go to the park. The city is quiet as he walks through it, most people in their homes. There are occasional ghost-like shadows, though: long and faded black, drifting down streets and curling between buildings. Loneliness, Castiel knows. The shadows always come out at this time of year. But he is not lonely today.

He sits at a bench in the park. It's his usual one, on a path bordering a stretch of grass, near a group of trees and flowers. They’re showing the effects of winter, but that’s all right. Castiel likes that too. He doesn’t come here as often anymore. Not now that he has his apartment to go to when he isn’t working. And that makes it nicer, somehow, to be here now.

 _I’m doing better_ , he thinks, and knows that it’s true. The shadows didn’t follow him today. He has extra money now, and Rachel’s birthday is at the end of November. He could send a little more than usual, this month. He could do that. Almost like a present.

Castiel frowns, and glances out across the park. It’s a little busier here than in the city itself. Mostly families, or couples on walks. He watches a young family, two women and two small boys, all wrapped up in coats and scarves, walking a dog.

Castiel has never had a dog. Not really. There was one, once, before the apartment, before the Gas-n-Sip, but he doesn’t know what happened to it. It was gone one morning when he woke up.

He shakes his head slightly, feeling frustrated with himself, with his thoughts. One of the little boys has fallen, tripping over the other’s foot. Castiel watches as one of the women picks him up, lifting him high into the air until he is too busy laughing to remember that he fell. Then she brings him down to settle against her hip. Castiel wants to smile, but he glances away instead.

On the walk back to his apartment, one of the shadows floats his way, starting up a steady tail behind him. But Castiel thinks of Dean, of his teasing and his curious looks, of staying at Dean’s home. He thinks of Hannah, too, funny and considerate, who’d texted _Happy Thanksgiving Cas! :)_ that morning; of Nora, and how kind she’s always been; of Ava, who Nora says might stop by the store nearer Christmas. He thinks that Dean will be calling him soon enough, and when he glances back, the shadow is gone, the shadow has drifted off somewhere else.

\--

“Cas,” Dean says, when Castiel has muted his television and answered the phone. “Dude, how you doing?”

Dean is cheery and a little loud, and has possibly had some drinks that evening. “I’m well,” Castiel tells him, smiling already, settling back into the couch. “Tell me about your Thanksgiving.”

He realizes that he’s been waiting for this, waiting to hear. And Dean is happy to oblige, sharing stories of his uncle’s new girlfriend, of his friends Ellen and Jo, Charlie, Dorothy and Missouri, of a near disaster with the pumpkin pie. Castiel had known that Dean would help with the meal.

“You all ate together?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “It was great. And Jody loved the pie, so, you know. She’s probably a keeper.”

“That’s lucky,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs.

“It’s just me, her, and Bobby now, anyway. I left them watching a movie.” He pauses. “Sam would’ve liked it,” he adds. “I think. He called earlier, but he was pretty swamped. Apparently.”

“Apparently,” Castiel echoes. He frowns. “You think he’s lying?”

“No,” Dean says. “No, I don’t, not really. I just.” He pauses, and then he lets out a long sigh. “It’s whatever. He doesn’t wanna hang, that’s fine, that makes sense. I’m good.”

Castiel tips his head, glancing at his phone, as though seeing it will help him to understand. Dean’s good mood seems to have shifted into something else. Castiel remembers Dean’s stories of Sam, and the photos on his fridge: ones from childhood, but more recent ones, too. Dean and his brother at a pool table, the two of them with Dean’s friend Charlie.

“Why does that make sense?” Castiel says.

He doesn’t get a response. He wonders if this is something that Dean would rather not discuss. But Dean has brought it up, he thinks. It’s something that Dean’s upset by. “Have you argued?” he tries.

“No,” Dean says. “Well, we argue, I guess, but not like you mean.”

“Oh. So?” Castiel prompts, because he’s struggling to follow.

“ _So_ he just… I dunno. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me anymore. That’s all. That happens.” Dean says the final words like a challenge. Castiel wishes that they weren’t talking over the phone. He remembers that Dean mentioned drinking with his family that evening, and he wonders if that’s to blame, a little, for this: not for the thoughts, but for the fact that Dean is sharing them. Castiel thinks he might not usually, and that idea makes him sad, too. 

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to see you,” he says, finally. Dean is silent, so Castiel adds, “Is he usually a poor judge of character?”

There’s another pause, and then Dean makes a strange sound: kind of a snort, kind of a drawing in of air. “Cas,” he says. He sounds a little more open, now. Slightly amused. “Is that, uh, is that a compliment there, buddy?”

“I suppose,” Castiel allows. “It’s also a question.”

“All right,” Dean says. His mood, as quickly as it dimmed, seems to have picked up again slightly. “Okay. Thanks, man. I’m sorry. I’m just tired, saying shit like this – I shouldn’t be, not to you.”

Castiel frowns. “You can talk to me,” he says. “I want to help.”

He listens to Dean breathe for a moment.

“Thanks,” Dean says eventually, quietly. “I – you have a good day? An okay shift?”

“Yes, it was all right,” Castiel says, recognizing the subject change for what it is. He thinks that Dean seems at least a little better. “It wasn’t very busy.”

“Cool. That’s good. You working tomorrow?”

“A late.”

“A late,” Dean repeats, slowly. “I could pick you up after? I’ll be back by then.” 

Castiel smiles, surprised, and he realizes that he misses Dean. Which is strange, because Dean hasn’t actually been gone that long, really. 

“But you’re driving home,” he says, remembering. “You’ll be tired. I don’t finish until one.”

“No, that’s fine,” Dean says. “I won’t be tired.”

\--

Dean is very obviously tired.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, reprovingly, when he enters the store. He’s a little wan, a little faded, dark skin below his eyes.

“What?” Dean says. “I’m good. I’ve had coffee.”

“I don’t think that makes you good,” Castiel tells him, in what may be a fairly blatant display of hypocrisy. The eyebrow raise that Dean gives him suggests that he’s aware. “Thank you, though. It’s very kind,” he adds, and Dean makes a face.

Castiel tries to hurry through closing up the store, because Dean clearly needs some sleep. He’s leaning against the counter to wait, scrubbing a hand along his jaw. But Black Friday had dragged on that day: the Gas-n-Sip busy, everyone buzzing with urgency, a few shadows still prowling outside. And Castiel is slower than he’d like now, his mind annoyingly sluggish as he deals with the cash register. 

He’s flipped the sign on the door to closed, and he’s putting on his jacket when Dean walks over, distracting him by resting his hands on Castiel’s sides. Dean tugs at the coat. “Hey again,” he says, and Castiel smiles.

“Hey.”

In the car, it’s a relief to be able to sit down. Castiel rolls his shoulders a little, then leans his head forwards, stretching his neck. As they pull out of the parking lot, Dean says, “You seem pretty tired too, dude.”

Castiel shrugs. “I’m fine.” Dean frowns at that, so he adds, “I could see more than usual today. And yesterday. It’s a little draining.”

“What?” Dean says. He looks over. “More spirits?”

“No.” There were the shadows, Castiel supposes, but he doesn’t mean those. “Just people. I see – what’s around them. All the time, but usually not so much of it, that's all.”

“You see what’s around them,” Dean repeats, slowly. “Like – auras?”

“Not really auras.” Castiel glances over, unsure of what to say. “There’s light, sometimes. Or emptiness. Color. Mostly a sort of… base. Of them. It’s hard to explain.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Christ.” He sounds impressed, which is definitely an unfounded feeling. “But, uh, those are totally auras, Cas. You’re like a psychic, man.” 

He smiles at Castiel’s narrow look. It’s a weary smile, though. One that he seems to struggle with. Even the way that Dean blinks seems tired.

“Would you like to sleep at my apartment tonight?” Castiel says.

He sees Dean turn to him. “Oh. Uh, yeah, that’d be okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “And then tomorrow I can make you breakfast. If you want.”

“Hey, sure,” Dean says. “I totally want. Thanks.” And then, after a silence, “So, uh, making breakfast – is that, like, code?”

Castiel frowns. “Code.”

“Yeah, you – dude, you know.” Dean grins at him. “ _Code._ ” He moves his eyebrows in that way of his, and Castiel catches on. He looks away, trying to hide a sudden smile. 

“It might be,” he replies. “Though I will also make you an actual breakfast.” Dean laughs, and Castiel thinks, _I missed you_. He’s happy to have Dean here.

\--

Later, they’re lying in Castiel’s bed. Castiel is on his back, and Dean has moved so that he can rest his head on Castiel’s chest, his arm a warm weight across his stomach. Castiel can feel him breathing. He likes this. He really does, and he tries to imagine the idea of it continuing. Of it happening a lot, of getting used to it, the way that he got used to Dean visiting the Gas-n-Sip, talking to him about films. (Or flirting, as Dean later called it.)

“Cas,” Dean says, into the quiet. Castiel hums in response. “Look, I just wanted to say. Sorry about unloading on you yesterday. That shit about Sam. I’d just been, y’know. It was dumb. And he texted today anyway, so, yeah. Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Castiel says. Dean had done that on the phone, too, he remembers. Castiel lifts his arm, shifting so that he can put it around Dean, so he can move his fingers through Dean’s hair. He remembers how that felt. “It wasn’t dumb.”

They lie there for a while, and Castiel thinks that Dean’s falling asleep. But then he speaks again. “Hey. You said you see these – aura things, right.”

“Right,” Castiel says.

“Okay,” Dean says. “So, uh – do I have one? Do you ever – ?” He cuts himself off, and huffs an odd kind of laugh. “Or not, y’know. That’s fine.”

Castiel shuts his eyes. The room is dark, but he does it all the same. “You have one,” he says. He takes a breath, slow and steadying, because it still feels like admitting something. Even though Dean knows such a lot already. And then, because he’s somehow sure that Dean won’t ask further, he adds, “It’s really nice.”

Dean is still, at first. But then his hand curls in Castiel’s t-shirt, and he sighs. He seems to rest against Castiel more heavily than before.


	7. Chapter 7

Things are going well.

This is something that Castiel has thought before. He’d thought it when he secured the job with Nora, when he was given the key to the store and its backroom. When he started receiving money each month, and when he managed to get his apartment. 

He has learned, recently, that there are different levels of ‘going well’. This is a level that he’s previously been unfamiliar with. 

At this level, Dean turns to him and says, “Diner for lunch?”, and when Castiel says _All right_ , they go. They have burgers and Cokes, and Dean talks about a project that he’s working on, explains to Castiel that it’s frustrating sometimes, because not everyone outside the company understands the industry.

“I don’t understand the industry,” Castiel tells him, with confidence, and Dean smiles.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says. “I’ve got you covered.”

After the meal, Castiel suggests that they go to the park, and Dean says, “Yeah? Sure.” 

It’s cold, December nearing, and Castiel feels oddly pleased to be able to walk Dean to the usual bench, to sit down with him there. There’s a frost over some of the trees, over the grass, crunchy and bright. Castiel puts his hands in his pockets. He tells Dean, “I like it here.” Dean looks over.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment. “It’s nice.” And then he takes one of Castiel’s hands out of his pocket and holds it between his. He rubs them together, his gloves and body heat much warmer than Castiel’s coat, and Castiel blinks. Dean takes his other hand and does the same. “Gloves, Cas,” he says, like a reprimand, and Castiel watches this, Dean’s hands around his own. 

There are other things that happen now, too. There’s Dean turning up for Castiel’s lunch break, talking with Castiel and Nora. There’s Castiel buying him nachos again. But it’s different this time, it’s so different. This time Castiel can say, “Do you want to stay over tonight?” and Dean can grin. 

There’s watching films that Dean’s chosen, or films that Castiel thinks sound interesting, there’s half-watching whatever’s playing when they put on the television. There’s waking up in the morning to Dean against his side, Dean’s leg slung over his own, his hand moving slowly along Castiel’s stomach as Dean murmurs, sleepily, “Before work?” 

There’s Hannah, at the store, talking about her sister, Muriel, who’s recovering from an injury she received at work. Hannah wants to help her get out of the house. When Castiel agrees that it’s a good idea, Hannah suggests that they could all go out for drinks sometime. 

“You two would probably get on,” she says. Then she laughs at Castiel’s expression, at his surprise. And it feels like a part of something, Castiel thinks. It feels like the strangest things are all clicking into place.

There are tiring days at the store, still. Tiring days at Dean’s office, days when Dean is busy, or Castiel is. There’s the morning when Castiel wakes up with his heart going too fast, too much, and he has to inch across the bed, across the cold space he’s made between them, to rest his head against Dean’s back, his hand against Dean’s side, to try and will himself back to sleep. 

There’s the night that Dean tells Castiel about his mother, who died when Dean was young. He is quiet, when he talks. Dean was in the house, he says, and he thought that he saw someone strange. Something strange. He told his father about it, he told Bobby, and after that, his father wasn’t really around anymore. Dean doesn’t speak for long, and afterwards, he stares up at the ceiling of his room. He shrugs, even though he’s lying down. But Castiel can still settle against him, can hold him and say, _I’m sorry_. He can say, _You were only a child._ And Dean can turn to face him, eventually. Dean can shut his eyes.

There’s still everything that there was before, but now there is this, too. 

There are winter decorations in the Gas-n-Sip; Castiel helps Nora to hang them up. He babysits Tanya while she sees a film with her friends. There’s snow on the ground one morning, but Castiel has gloves, now, he has boots. He wonders if Dean will call him on Christmas, too. He thinks that he’s happy.

\--

Castiel is at Dean’s, and Dean is on his laptop. He’s sitting in the corner of his couch so that he can stretch his legs out, so that he can rest his feet in Castiel’s lap. Castiel is watching a nature program.

“Ever seen a wraith?” Dean says.

The question takes a moment to register. There’s a family of meerkats making their way across the desert, returning to their home. “What?” Castiel says.

“Wraith,” Dean says. And then, looking at his laptop screen, “Uh – a ghost-like creature, darkened eyes.” He glances back at Castiel, his eyebrows raised.

Castiel stares at him. “I saw one,” he says, eventually. “Once.”

“Yeah?” Dean says. “Did it look like a person? Like, solid.”

Castiel is confused. “No. They’re apparitions. More like Sandover was than people.” 

“Oh,” Dean says. “Huh.” He goes back to his laptop. Castiel continues to watch him, but Dean doesn’t look back, so eventually he returns to the TV. The meerkats are still moving across the sand, unaware that there’s a snake nearby. The narrator is saying something, but Castiel is distracted, now.

“Dark spirit,” Dean says, a minute or so later. “Takes a human form, feeds on negative energy. You know those?”

Castiel looks at him again. He nods, warily.

“Okay. So, do they look totally human?” Dean says. “Or, I dunno. Weird face, freaky eyes?”

Castiel doesn’t know what’s going on. But Dean is watching him, waiting. 

“They just look like people,” he says, and Dean frowns. “Dean. Are you searching for something?” 

Castiel knows that there’s information on these things out in the world. It used to be in books, back when he spent his time in libraries. Apparently, it’s now online. He hadn’t known; he doesn’t look for it anymore. 

“Kind of,” Dean says, into the quiet. He lifts his feet off Castiel’s lap, twisting to sit up on the couch, to face him. “I’ve been thinking about when I was a kid. The, uh.” His mouth twists a little.

“The thing you saw,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. I _knew_ it was something, back then,” Dean says. “And, you know, like I said. I was young. I was dumb enough to think everyone would believe me.”

Castiel blinks at that. At the nerve he didn’t realize it would touch. “Yes,” he says, carefully. He doesn’t like how it sounds. He reminds himself, firmly, that this isn’t something that he thinks about these days. But Dean looks at him, and he can hold Dean’s gaze; it can be something that they share. Dean’s eyes go a little wide.

“Yeah,” he says, slowly. “Yeah, Christ, you must know, huh?”

Castiel shrugs a shoulder, uncomfortable. “So you’ve been searching for it,” he prompts, and Dean nods.

“I’ve just been thinking. If I can figure it out, if I – if I can just know what it was.” He shakes his head, but he doesn’t have to continue. Castiel knows the end of that sentence. _I might feel better_. It doesn’t make sense, not really, but Castiel understands.

He looks down at the laptop that Dean has set between them. Dean looks at Castiel. “Do you think you could help?” he says, in a rush. “I mean, you know this stuff, right? You know the wraiths and whatever, you might know…?” 

There’s an abrupt feeling, then: something sharp, something that makes Castiel tense. Almost déjà vu. Because this is like Rachel again. It’s the same, he thinks, and it’s as though, suddenly, she’s here. Or rather, Castiel is there. He’s back there, Rachel looking at him like Dean is looking at him now, hopeful, believing, and Castiel right about to make his decision.

“Cas?”

He breathes in too sharply. It’s been a long time since he – since this. “Um,” he says. Frustratingly off balance. “Well, you shouldn’t – ” He almost says, _You shouldn’t trust me._ “I don’t know everything,” he corrects, quickly, the panic curling tighter with that misstep. He thinks of the ghost at Sandover. He helped with that, everything went all right. Everything’s going well. He thinks that until he feels a little steadier. And then he says, “I can try to help." 

He realizes that Dean is staring at him. 

Dean says, “Hey. Are you okay?” 

Castiel frowns, by accident.

“Yes,” he replies. “I want to help.”

“Okay,” Dean says, after a moment. “Okay, man. Thanks.” He reaches out and touches Castiel’s elbow. Castiel looks down at this, and then back up, confused.

\--

They don’t figure it out. Castiel doesn’t think that they’re going to. There are things, he knows, that haven’t been documented. Things people don’t understand. He tries to explain to Dean. That they can be hidden, that they can be powerful enough to disguise themselves.

“Old things,” he tells Dean, and wishes that he hadn’t. It feels like the night that Dean showed up at the Gas-n-Sip, the night Castiel started ignoring all the instincts that told him to stay quiet. He is skating too close again. Getting too near to something that might turn around.

They’re sitting together on the couch, now. The television is playing something new, the meerkats long gone; Castiel didn’t see if they made it home. Beside him, Dean is trying to cover his disappointment. But he’s slumped a little on the seat. His mouth is small. Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s, uncertainly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

Dean frowns. “No, come on. You don’t have to be sorry. I don’t know what I’d – ” He stops. He pulls a face, one that Castiel doesn’t understand. “Look, I just mean. You, uh – you’ve definitely helped, Cas. You know that, right?”

Castiel thinks of Sandover again. He nods. “Okay,” Dean says. He laughs, surprisingly nervous. “Good. Cool.” His hand shifts under Castiel’s, and Castiel thinks to move away, but then Dean is turning his hand, linking their fingers together. Oh. “I guess you had that same thing, as a kid,” Dean says, quietly. “Seeing stuff.”

Castiel almost takes his hand back. 

“I have always seen things,” he agrees instead, and Dean huffs. 

“You ever tell anyone about it? Your friends, foster parents?”

“Um,” Castiel says. He smiles for a second, without meaning to, without feeling happy. He isn’t entirely sure how they got here. “Mostly when I was younger. I learned not to,” he adds, trying for wry, trying to move the conversation along. He’s looking straight ahead, but he sees Dean glance at him.

Dean says, “Okay.” After a moment, he lets go of Castiel’s hand. 

\--

Later, they’re in Dean’s room. His bed is always so comfortable, and Castiel has been thinking, recently: what if his own mattress were more comfortable. It might help his back. 

Dean is telling Castiel about South Dakota. About a night when he was young, setting off fireworks with Sam and Bobby. It feels like he's trying to write over their other conversation, trying to replace it with something more pleasant. His father is absent again, though, although Dean doesn’t mention it. And Castiel thinks of Dean’s conviction, on the phone, that his brother might just not want to see him anymore. That Sam might just leave. It makes him a little angry. It makes him sad.

“What about you?” Dean says. “You, uh – I dunno, you grow up around here?”

“No,” Castiel tells him.

“No?” Dean echoes, after another moment. Like it’s still a question. Castiel glances at him, but it’s too dark to see Dean’s face.

“I moved here a few years ago,” he explains.

“Mm,” Dean says. “Okay.” He sounds – disappointed? Castiel isn’t sure. He waits, but Dean doesn’t say anything else.

\--

The next day doesn't start out well. Dean is quiet in the morning, and pretends that he isn’t when Castiel mentions it. He puts on the news, and the forecaster predicts bad weather in the run up to Christmas, more rain than snow. Castiel forgets his gloves in Dean’s apartment, and now that he’s gotten used to them, his hands feel even colder than before. 

At work, nobody is in a good mood. A woman complains about gas prices, and then, deciding Castiel doesn’t seem remorseful enough, complains about him. A man shouts at him. Harry has unneeded comments to make about everything that he does. Castiel just tries to focus on getting the delivery out. 

But everything seems to go on the lower shelves today. His neck aches. His knees hurt. He has a nagging worry about Dean and Dean’s quietness. A feeling like he missed something.

At lunch, he’s very glad to be able to stop for a while. He sits down heavily in the breakroom, fingers digging at the muscles at the top of his back. He notices his phone, the blinking light that means there’s a text. He relaxes slightly. The unnamed worry eases. He’s relieved enough that he opens the message right away, opens it without really looking at it at all. In the end, he reads through it twice before he realizes that it isn’t actually from Dean. It’s from Rachel.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel walks home after work. It’s cold.

Dean is seeing friends from Sandover that evening, so he won’t be around. But that’s all right, really, because Castiel doesn’t much feel like company right now. He just feels like getting back to his apartment. 

The walk seems to take a very long time. Inside, he shuts the door and stands in the quiet.

After a while, he takes a breath, then goes to sit in front of the television. The remote is just beside him. He turns the TV on, he looks in the direction of the screen.

It feels as though he is waiting for something. For his mind to settle, perhaps. Or for his chest to be okay again, for his head to stop feeling like it’s made up of mechanical gears, all of them grinding together wrong.

He sits on the couch and waits. It’s cold in his apartment, too.

\--

Castiel has finished paying Rachel back for her medical costs. 

That’s why she texted him. She was letting him know that he can stop sending money now. 

It’s good news. 

He goes to work the next day. He serves customers, he puts out the delivery. He talks to Nora when she arrives. About Christmas, and Tanya, and the schedule for the week. The day is the same as always. He knows this. He restocks the bottled drinks, sets them in the usual neat rows, and nothing is different at all. But when Nora mentions that she needs two shifts covering, Castiel doesn’t feel pleased, like he normally does. He waits for it, for the usual relieved feeling, but he mostly just feels tired. 

“That’s fine,” he tells Nora anyway, and she smiles at him, she says thanks. 

“Are you feeling okay today?” she asks, a little later.

Castiel glances at her. “Yes.” Something in his stomach twists unpleasantly. Nora shouldn’t be asking that.

On his lunch break, Castiel picks up a magazine from the table, but he finds that he’s turning through the pages too quickly, not really paying attention. After a while, he sets it back down and glances around the empty breakroom. He picks up his phone. He texts Dean. _Did you have a nice time yesterday?_

Then, thinking it over, he types another message, telling Dean about the change to his work schedule. It might be something that Dean would want to know. Castiel sends the text, and then frowns down at his phone. He thinks of the shifts again, and he wishes, suddenly, that he didn’t have to do them. 

His leg is bouncing a little, up and down, up and down, and he puts his hand on it, making it stop. He doesn’t want to wish that. He feels a little frustrated. Nothing is happening how it should.

After work, putting on his coat, he sees that Dean has replied. He says that he had fun with his friends. _Lot of shifts this week huh?_ he’s added, and Castiel looks at that for a long moment. He puts the phone in his pocket and zips up his coat. He takes the phone out again. 

He isn’t sure how to reply. _Yes_ would be wrong, but he doesn’t know what’s right. So he stands pointlessly in the back of the store, and eventually he just sends, _Nora asked me to._

\--

Later, he is standing in front of his bookshelf. The plants have all been doing well lately, despite the cold. They’re looking nice. Castiel thinks that they’ll need watering again soon, but instead of going to the kitchen, he stays where he is and looks at the shelves. 

He knows that they’re crowded. There are the books, and then there’s everything that he’s decided to bring home since he got the apartment. He’s never been too sure why; it’s just been something that he’s done. The strange coins, the things from the park. The interesting pictures and maps, the old photographs of people he doesn’t know. 

Dean had liked the bookshelf, Castiel remembers. He picks up the lighter that Dean gave him, small and green. He flicks it open, then closed, for no real reason. He sets it back on the shelf.

\--

Dean stops by the store at lunch the next day. They sit on the wall outside again, although the weather isn’t really right for it anymore. Castiel is holding his coffee cup with both hands. It’s too hot. He has a sandwich today, set on the wall beside him, still in its packaging. He isn’t feeling very hungry. Dean asks him about his day, and Castiel attempts to think of something interesting to tell him.

“Hey, you okay?” Dean says, almost immediately. Castiel frowns. Hannah had asked the same thing earlier. He wishes that people would stop. He doesn’t want them to act like this, all concerned. Castiel has no reason to need concern.

“I’m fine,” he tells Dean, and takes a quick drink of his coffee. It burns his mouth. 

Dean bumps Castiel’s shoulder, friendly, and Castiel smiles a little at that. It’s good to see Dean again. He moves to nudge him back, but instead he decides to lean against Dean’s shoulder, to rest there for a moment. He wishes that they were somewhere else. He wishes that they were in bed, and he knows that Dean would laugh at that thought, but Castiel doesn’t mean it that way. He just thinks that maybe if he could lie with Dean for a while, rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, his hand on Dean’s chest. Close his eyes. Maybe Dean would be talking about something, telling Castiel about Sioux Falls again. It would just be nice.

“Cas?” Dean says, quietly, and Castiel draws back.

“Oh,” he says. Dean is looking at him in a careful way. Castiel shakes his head. “Sorry. How’s work today?” he asks. 

“It’s fine,” Dean replies, frowning slightly. Castiel thinks that he looks disappointed.

\--

Castiel is getting something wrong. 

It’s not unfamiliar, the way that Dean has started looking at him. As though Dean is searching for something and not finding it. Castiel has become used to that sort of look, over the years, over his life. But he isn’t used to it from Dean.

He doesn’t know what to do. He asks, at first. But Dean says, _Dude, I’m not angry with you._ And then just, _Cas, come on._ Which is not helpful, and it leaves Castiel uncertain, it leaves everything feeling unsure. He goes to the library to research again, looking for what Dean saw as a child. He thinks, if he could just find the answer. If he could just figure it out. But he can’t. He stays over at Dean’s, and Dean is acting strangely still. Castiel rests against him, close and quiet, and tries to fall asleep. But he doesn’t feel better. Not like he imagined that he would. He doesn’t feel very good at all. 

It isn’t fair, he thinks. But then he thinks of Rachel's message again, and he knows that actually, probably, it is. 

Over breakfast, Dean talks about Sam and his girlfriend, Jess, about how they’ll be visiting him at Christmas. He drums his fingers against the table, leaving a long pause, and Castiel watches. Dean will be busy, he thinks, with his family staying. It occurs to him that Dean might not want to call him after all. He looks down at the table, thinking this over, and he doesn’t realize that he’s forgotten to reply until Dean says, “Okay, well. Let’s head out.”

Work, Castiel thinks, dully.

\--

“Do you like working here?” he asks Hannah, when the store is quiet. She looks over from shelving the sandwiches. Her mouth shifts a little, like she’s thinking.

“Well,” she says. “Sure, it’s all right. I like the people, you know? You and Nora, Krissy. I mean, Harry’s a little…” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, and Hannah smiles.

“Yeah. And you know, there are bad days. But it’s fine.” She shrugs. “What about you?”

Castiel studies the counter. 

“I’m glad to have this job,” he says. It isn’t really untrue; it has been his main feeling since he’s been hired. He remembers his surprise when Nora had offered it. His relief. Like he was finally moving forwards, making a step towards paying Rachel back. He had been glad, then. Every month, getting paid, he’d been glad. 

But now, he doesn’t feel so sure. This month he's been thinking, where will the money even go? He remembers his idea about the bed, about buying memory foam. But he doesn’t much feel like doing that anymore. He doesn’t really see the point.

It’s strange. He’s been trying for so long to repay Rachel. To at least be able to make that right. And he knows that it’s good to have done it now. He knows that he should be happy. But there is something missing. And really, he thinks that he knows what it is. 

He just always thought, stupidly, selfishly, that it would make him feel better.

\--

He texts Dean one evening, asking if he’d like to come over. Castiel hasn’t really been feeling good. He's been sitting on the couch and watching television by himself. He misses Dean. He misses when things made sense.

He thinks that Dean might not come over, but he does. He arrives looking very serious, and Castiel feels tired. He feels so tired.

“Let’s just watch television,” he says, taking Dean’s hand. There’s a pause that Castiel struggles through, and then Dean shrugs, he says, _Sure_. Castiel leads him back to the couch and sits them down. He rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, he keeps their hands linked together, and he waits for things to change.

“Cas,” Dean says, after a little while of watching commercials. He is still too serious. Castiel just wants to close his eyes. “Hey, listen. You know you can trust me, right? This is – I mean, we’re, you and me are.” He stops. He is tense, beside Castiel. And silent now, like he’s waiting. Castiel shifts, uncomfortable.

“I know that,” he replies. He does. He trusts Dean. 

But Dean just sighs.

That night, Castiel dreams again.

It doesn’t make any sense this time. He is standing in Rachel’s hospital room. He was never actually there, but now he is, in a room with a bed and white tiles, a television and a little sink, just like his had been. Rachel is sleeping. Castiel wishes that he could talk to her again. But he won’t.

He takes a step forward anyway, just to see her, just because it’s been so long – and that doesn’t make sense either, because it hadn’t been long at all, back then. He frowns, but then he forgets. His own injuries are returning, he thinks, seeing the blood on his hands.

But Rachel looks peaceful, her eyes closed, her expression clear. Castiel is glad of that, at least. There are hospital machines beeping, but not too loudly. He doesn’t think that they’ll wake her up. He should go. He knows that. She wouldn’t want him here.

He looks at her for a long moment, and he wants to say _I’m sorry_ , but he doesn’t. She wouldn’t hear, it wouldn’t help. He steadies himself, and he turns to go. He sees that black sludge has followed him into the room. It's trailed all across the tiles. 

Castiel stops. He looks down at his hands. They are stained with black, not red, and he panics. He stumbles towards the sink, towards the mirror. The sink is filling. They’re coming back. Don’t look up, he thinks, don’t look up, please. But it isn’t him who’s looking. His head is lifted and he sees it in the mirror: the blackness sliding from his eyes, from his mouth. And behind him, Rachel is frowning, Rachel is slowly waking up.

Castiel's eyes snap open. The covers tangle at his feet, but he is awake, he’s out of bed, he’s making his way to the bathroom. He takes awful, unsteady breaths, and he kneels down on the tiles, waiting, stomach churning, but he doesn’t throw up this time. He puts a hand to his chest. He presses hard, as though he could slow down his heart that way. 

It didn’t happen, he thinks. It didn’t happen. 

“Cas?” Dean asks. He sounds tired, confused. A light turns on. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, “no.” He should stand, he should – he should’ve shut the door. 

“Hey, whoa, are you okay? Are you sick?” Dean’s voice is tentative, edging into concerned, and Castiel shakes his head, rapidly. 

“I’m fine,” he says, but it sounds all wrong. “I’m okay, I – ”

Dean touches his shoulder and Castiel flinches.

He doesn’t mean to. But it happens, and Dean draws back right away. The room is very quiet.

“Cas,” Dean says, at last. Low, almost beseeching. “C’mon, man. What’s going on?”

Castiel still can’t breathe right. He doesn’t want to say anything. He shuts his eyes, like a child, like he can just block things out. His throat aches, and there’s a long silence. And then Dean says, quietly, defeated, “All right. Well. I’m going back to bed.” 

Castiel listens to his footsteps as they go. 

\--

He has an evening shift the next day. He is still half-asleep in the morning when he hears Dean's voice. “Cas,” Dean says. “I’m going to work now, okay?”

Castiel says, “Okay.” He stays very still. After a few moments, he hears the bedroom door close.

He lies there for a while. He slowly traces the dark blue stripe that runs along the pillowcase. He thinks about things like eating breakfast, getting a shower. He turns over in bed and shuts his eyes again. 

He goes to work, eventually.

It’s Harry working today, and Castiel is entirely unsurprised. But Harry doesn’t really make his usual comments. He just gives Castiel occasional long, strange looks. That's fine. Castiel doesn’t mind. He’s had plenty of experience with those.

He decides that it’s a good time to deal with the freezers again, to sort out the slushie machine and the coffee machine and the cigarettes. 

“Looking forward to Christmas?” a customer asks him, a friendly woman with a light, airy sort of aura. Presence, Castiel thinks. A light presence, and Castiel didn’t actually see Dean this morning, or in the bathroom last night, but he thinks of how Dean’s been seeming lately. Closed off. Much less gold when Castiel is around. Castiel thinks that he’s probably glad he didn’t look, earlier.

“I am,” Castiel tells the woman, smiling, wondering if Dean doesn’t want to see him anymore. “Are you?”

There are families and couples in the store that day, there are two doppelgangers who seem to be friends. There’s the dark spirit again, and Castiel sells him more Marlboro Reds. He hands over the pack, just like he has all the other times, and he suddenly feels exhausted. The spirit leaves and Castiel blinks down at the counter. He walks back over to the chips, because he’s halfway through straightening them up.

There are more customers, there is coffee to mop up when someone drops their cup. Castiel starts to suspect that something’s wrong. He is not just tired. He feels strange, too cold. Drained. He sits in the breakroom and wants to put on his coat.

 _I think I’m getting sick,_ he texts to Dean, and then he remembers that Dean isn't very happy with him anymore. He puts the phone down, fast, and looks at the wall.

“Uh,” Harry says, a while later, appearing in the doorway. “Hey, man, I think it’s the end of your break.”

“Right,” Castiel says. “Yes. Thank you.”

He heads back out. Harry is actually doing some work for once, shelving the last of the day’s delivery. And Castiel finds himself frowning, suddenly, at the light above the coffee machine. It gives a steady glow. He tries to remember, with a strange sense of urgency, if it’s even flickered at all lately.

“Harry,” he says. “Wasn’t there a problem with that light?” Harry turns around, looking up at the ceiling.

“Oh,” he says. “Like a while ago, yeah. Nora got the wiring sorted or something, though. I don’t know.”

“The wiring,” Castiel echoes. “Okay.”

He had forgotten all about the light. About his idea of a ghost. It doesn’t make sense to feel disappointed.

Harry’s shift is over eventually, and then there’s just Castiel. It’s dark outside now. The rain is loud, pelting against the windows, a steady background drumming, and Castiel wishes that he didn’t have to walk home. He looks over the inventory for a while. It’s difficult to focus. He doesn’t feel well. At some point he realizes that he's just standing behind the counter, waiting until he can leave. 

Finally, there are only five minutes left until close. Castiel keeps thinking of the night that Dean told him about Sandover's ghost. Dean arriving out of nowhere, wanting to see Castiel. It had been around this time, Castiel thinks. It had been raining then, too.

The door swings open. He looks up, fast. 

It’s the dark spirit.

Right, Castiel thinks. Okay. He feels stupid. Tired. Even worse than he did a moment before, in fact. Shivering and weary. 

The dark spirit takes a step forwards, and Castiel suddenly remembers that it’s already been in the store today. It’s already bought its cigarettes. 

He thinks of something else, too. Something that feels a long time ago. Dean on the couch, looking at his laptop. Dean’s voice. _Dark spirit. Takes a human form, feeds on negative energy._

Castiel stares at the spirit, at the man and the light brown coat, at the darkness all around it. He feels a wave of shock. His hands curl at his sides, restless, tense. 

“I’m closing now,” he tells it, taking a step around the counter. “Sorry.”

The dark spirit smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's commented/left kudos! You're all lovely, and I really appreciate it. <33
> 
> And [here](http://weirdhermitsunited.tumblr.com/post/100279995327/) is the wonderful art that weirdhermitsunited did of Gas-n-Sip Cas! :)

Castiel doesn’t remember everything. There are gaps, in his life.

He remembers moving from place to place. From a house to a different one, a family to a different one. He remembers when he thought that this was normal, and when he learned that it wasn’t.

He remembers the same thing about the spirits. The strange things. Learning that he shouldn’t talk about it. Being shown, quite clearly, that he shouldn’t talk about it. But sometimes, he still did. 

There was a librarian, once, in one of the elementary schools. She showed Castiel books and asked what he thought. _You read the spooky stuff, huh?_ she said, like that was okay, and she’d smile when Castiel walked up to her desk. He’d been looking for somebody to trust, somebody who might believe him. He’d thought that maybe he could trust her.

That had been incorrect. 

He doesn’t remember all the houses. All the families. He doesn’t remember the first one. He used to want to; he used to think about it a lot. At first, he imagined that there was someone looking for him, a mother or a father, searching from house to house, always just one place behind where Castiel had been. Someone who knew about the dark things; someone who could tell him what to do. 

And then he grew up a little, and he realized that this was stupid. And he used to wonder, instead, how they knew. How they could tell, whoever they were, so early.

Sometimes, he thinks that he does remember the first house. A dark room, a couch with a man on it and a television playing too bright. Sometimes, he thinks that he had a sister. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

Rachel was the first person to believe him. They both saw the specter, moving through the woods by the house they lived in. It wasn’t concerned with hiding itself. _What do we do?_ Rachel asked Castiel. And it was so strange, to be believed. To be spoken to like this.

So he showed her the blessings that he’d learned in one of the libraries. They whispered them in the corners of the house, they scratched symbols into quarters and carried them around. Rachel would ask him what he saw, and she’d squint at their foster siblings, at their classmates and teachers, and try to see it too. It was nice. Like having a friend. A sister. Other people always had those, and Castiel always wondered. 

And when he had to leave, Rachel hugged him. She said _I’ll keep in touch_ and then she did.

He remembers when she asked for help again. He wasn’t sure, this time. Not like with the specter. But she was his sister, and Castiel told her he could do it, he could figure things out. He knew that there was nobody else who could.

He doesn’t remember everything after that. Only flashes. 

He didn’t know that they were Leviathan. He’d never even heard of Leviathan, not until they told him. And then there was the blackness. His eyes and his mouth, his hands not his own, and later, the water. Dragging himself in, knowing that they wouldn’t survive much longer. Everything drawing in and bursting out, leaving him empty, leaving him hollowed. 

He remembers afterwards. The hospital. Waking up in a room there. Hester telling him, in the end, about Rachel. It had been touch and go. A long recovery.

And then Hester telling him to go, and Castiel just going, with nowhere to actually go at all. Castiel just gone. 

It was a while before he had money again. But when he did, he started to repay her. He worked as often as he could. He tried to keep away from things, to keep himself where nobody could get hurt.

Until Dean. And then Castiel ruined that, too.

He frowns.

He doesn’t know if that’s true. 

Dean seems unhappy, but he isn’t gone. He hasn’t told Castiel to go.

_Cas –_

And Castiel remembers Hannah, who mentioned a bar in the city recently, suggested it for after Christmas. She said her sister is inviting a friend from work, too. 

Castiel remembers thinking that he’s looking forward to it.

Cas!” Dean shouts again, and Castiel’s head snaps up, his eyes blink open. He gasps a breath.

He is kneeling on the floor of the Gas-n-Sip. He is exhausted. Shaking. He looks up and the dark spirit is there, surrounded by blackness. But there was – he heard Dean – and Castiel manages to turn his head. Dean is standing in the open doorway to the store. He looks furious. He’s holding iron piping.

It doesn’t any make sense. 

It’s like a film, Castiel thinks, a little dazedly. It’s not like something that would actually happen. 

Dean can’t seem to move forwards, though. Seeing this, Castiel turns quickly back to the dark spirit. It’s smiling down at him, and it knows, Castiel realizes. It knows him now. 

It’s difficult to breathe.

But Dean is here. Dean’s in danger here.

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel looks at him again, even though it feels impossible, even though his head is filled with the very worst things. And Dean throws the iron piping. 

It clatters across the floor. The spirit looks sideways, a frown flickering, and then a flare of alarm. It hadn’t expected iron; it hadn’t expected something that it couldn’t stop. Castiel picks up the piping.

His arm feels heavy, his whole body feels like it’s cased in cement, weighting him down. But he is frightened for Dean. For what might happen. He’s still kneeling, but he tries to swing all the same. 

The dark spirit stumbles back. 

Dean bursts into the store. Falls into it, like he’s been pushing against a wall and now the wall is gone. 

“Fuck,” he says, hitting the ground.

Castiel swings again. Stronger this time. He makes solid contact, catching the spirit in the stomach, and then he swings and he doesn’t make contact at all. He swings through a swirl of black air. 

The spirit has abandoned its form. It’s turned to smoke, as if the man were never there at all. It rises to the ceiling, and Castiel thinks that it’s panicking. He thinks that perhaps it didn’t expect confrontation.

His arm is shaking, but he manages to hold up the iron piping. He draws back, ready to throw. 

A light bulb bursts above the coffee machine and the dark spirit streams towards the door. It disappears into the night outside.

Castiel drops the piping. 

It thuds to the ground. His vision blurs.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “What the fuck.” He slams the Gas-n-Sip door shut, and Castiel startles at the sound. Then suddenly, Dean is crouching in front of him, putting a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his other arm. “Cas, Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?”

Castiel looks at him. His eyes feel too wide, but he can’t seem to help that. He can’t help the ragged breathing, either, much as he might like it to stop, can’t seem to control the shivering that keeps running through him. He feels as though something has unearthed itself, something is crushing down on his chest.

“Dean?” he says, at last. Because it doesn’t make sense, Dean being here. It doesn’t make any sense. Castiel feels scared that this isn’t real. 

He tries to focus. To concentrate. Dean looks strange, he thinks, and he realizes that Dean looks scared, too. Bright and sharp with fear. It makes him seem younger than he usually does. It makes him seem like somebody unsure. Castiel knows how that feels, at least. He reaches out a hand, gripping the sleeve of Dean’s jacket. He wants to reassure Dean, but he can’t even seem to stay still. 

Dean says, “Hey, are you hurt?” His hand moves restlessly up and down Castiel’s arm.

Castiel shakes his head.

“It was a dark spirit,” he says. Dean had wanted to know. 

Dean looks at him for a long moment. “A dark spirit.” He says it very seriously. His expression is grim. 

Castiel nods. He sways a little. 

Dean puts both his hands on Castiel’s arms now, like he is holding him still, holding him up. He searches his face.

“Okay,” he says, at last. “All right. Let’s just get back to your place for now, okay?” Castiel nods again, and it makes him feel dizzy. Dean is frowning. “You’re so pale, man. You don’t even – ” He stops. He shakes his head. “Hey, you’re finished here? In the store? We can just go?”

Castiel manages a final nod. He lets Dean help him to his feet, staggering a little, still feeling stunned. Still not understanding what’s going on. He wants to stop shaking. His shoulders curl in with the cold. 

“My coat,” he murmurs. He tries to turn, but Dean stops him.

“I’ll get it,” he says, and he walks quickly away, into the back of the store. Castiel blinks. Customers aren’t allowed back there, he thinks, a little vaguely. But he tries to concentrate on remaining standing, on not falling back to the floor. He keeps thinking of unwanted things, though. The hospital. The teacher, once, who’d been replaced by a doppelganger, and nobody had noticed. His old quarter with the carvings in. The one he’d kept, then hadn’t. It’s all here again, in his head, and he needs it to go.

Dean reappears. He’s holding Castiel’s coat, his wallet and phone. “You got anything else here?”

Castiel doesn’t. He manages to get the coat on, and then Dean tugs at the sides with both hands, gripping the material. He looks down at it, and then up at Castiel. “Okay,” he says, decisively. “Let’s go.” 

Dean’s fear seems to have gone, now. It would be awful to feel disappointed by that, so it’s unsurprising to Castiel that he feels disappointed. It had just been nice, he thinks, in that moment: both of them feeling the same. 

Dean gets Castiel outside, moving slowly. They are soaked by the rain as Castiel fumbles the key to the store, slow and uncoordinated, almost dropping it until Dean finally takes it from him to lock up. Castiel’s hands curl and uncurl, useless at his sides.

It’s quiet in the car. Dean starts up the engine and turns on the heater. He twists around and puts the iron piping on the backseat. Castiel hadn’t even noticed Dean picking it back up.

“You had iron,” he says slowly, as Dean pulls out of the parking lot. He sounds distant to his own ears. He doesn’t understand. He wants to reach his hands out, to put them in front of the heater, but he doesn’t think he has the energy.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Uh. I keep some stuff in the car now. Iron, lighters.” He lifts a corner of his mouth, tentatively. “Dunno if you know this, buddy, but there are ghosts out there.”

Castiel stares at him. At his hopeful smile. He’s trying to make Castiel laugh, and Castiel realizes, suddenly, that he might love Dean. He might. He isn’t sure how he’s meant to tell.

He glances at the window, at the falling rain. Now is not the time, he thinks.

“I don’t understand how you’re here,” he says instead, kind of helplessly, and Dean looks away. 

“Cas,” he says, like a sigh. “It’s raining. You shouldn’t fuckin’ walk home if you’re sick.” Castiel thinks of the text message that he sent to Dean. Dean had come to pick him up. He’d driven out here, he’d arrived at one in the morning. “And your gloves are still at my place,” Dean adds. “Idiot.” He slides a glance at Castiel, and Castiel thinks that he does. He loves him. He is not sure what to do about that.

“I don’t think I’m actually sick,” he tells Dean, because that’s probably something he should address. “I think it was just the dark spirit.” He pauses, and frowns. “Sorry.”

He sees Dean glance at him again, and then Dean makes a sound that’s almost like a laugh. Castiel doesn’t think it is one, though. It sounds upset.

Dean says, strained, “Pretty sure the point still stands, Cas.” 

Castiel thinks that over. “Oh,” he says. “All right.” And then he closes his eyes, just for a second. 

“Cas,” Dean says, a little while later. Castiel stirs. The car is parked outside his building now, and Dean has opened Castiel’s door, Dean is standing outside in the rain. “C’mon.”

\--

He sits on the couch. Dean has been in the kitchen, but he walks back out now and he offers Castiel a glass of water. Castiel holds it with both hands. He takes a drink, and then he watches the water ripple and slosh. He holds it a little tighter. 

“Thank you,” he says. Dean makes an agreeable sound. He’s behind Castiel again, and Castiel turns a little. “What are you doing?”

“Watering your plants,” Dean replies. “They need it, man.” He’s trying to sound amused, but he doesn’t, not really. Castiel swallows around his aching throat.

“Oh,” he says, very quietly. He sags, on the couch. “Dean,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Dean says. And then, in a different voice, “Cas?”

He appears in front of Castiel. He takes the glass out of Castiel’s hands and sets it on the coffee table, and he sits down on the edge of the couch. “You okay?” he asks. He makes the question sound like it’s a joke of some kind, something stupid to say. But Castiel doesn’t get the joke. He never understands. He stares at Dean and he shakes his head, wordlessly. Dean’s expression changes. “No?” he says. He shifts on the couch, a little closer. Castiel looks down at the space between them.

“Dean,” he says. “I’ve finished paying off my sister’s medical costs.”

He looks back up. Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. “You,” he says, and then he shakes his head. “What?”

“My foster sister,” Castiel corrects. “Formerly. I can’t help her anymore.” He takes a breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, either. With you. I don’t know why you’re unhappy with me. I just want you to be happy.” And he thinks for a moment, and then he adds, “And I’m tired. From the spirit, and just. Generally. I’m so tired.” 

Then he waits. 

Dean is staring at him. He looks like someone in a cartoon, Castiel thinks. He’s been watching a few of those lately; they’ve been on television, sometimes. Dean looks like someone who’s just been hit with a giant mallet. 

Then Dean moves forward, and his arms go around Castiel, his hands bunch in the back of Castiel’s coat. He presses his forehead down against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel is startled. He puts his hand on the back of Dean’s head. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He feels the motion of Dean shaking his head. 

“I thought it was killing you,” Dean says, his voice muffled into Castiel’s neck, his breath on Castiel’s skin. “It looked like it was killing you.” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. 

“Well,” he tries. “I’m okay.” Dean only tightens his grip, so Castiel puts his arms around Dean and holds him. He lets himself tip his head, just slightly, to Dean’s. He closes his eyes and shudders. It hasn’t been a good evening. It has been a terrible evening. 

Dean draws back, then. He moves, his hand cupping Castiel’s face, Dean’s palm fitting against his cheek. His thumb drifts back and forth, and Castiel blinks at him. Dean holds his gaze. 

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay. Let’s figure this out.”

\--

He tells Dean about Rachel. It doesn’t seem right to Castiel, that the dark spirit know this and Dean not. And it’s all there again now, anyway. It’s all right there in Castiel’s head, after all this time of looking away.

He doesn’t tell Dean everything. But enough for him to understand. It is difficult to look at him, and mostly Castiel doesn’t. He looks down at his hands, which Dean holds between his own, and Castiel keeps waiting for Dean to let go, but he doesn’t. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” Castiel says. And Dean nods, like that makes sense. Like that isn’t something terrible.

Afterwards, Dean leads him to bed. He tugs off Castiel’s coat, pulls it down Castiel’s arms for him, and he says, quietly, half-laughing, “This coat, man.” He shakes his head.

Castiel looks at it, dark green and waterproof, just like always, and then at Dean, not understanding. “I just like it,” Dean tells him. He kisses Castiel, quick and light, and smiles at him in the nice way that he has. He hasn’t been doing that lately. Castiel feels something inside him almost give way in relief.

They strip down to their t-shirts and boxers and they get into Castiel’s bed. It’s good to be lying down, Castiel thinks. He’s feeling a little better. Less exhausted, more himself. And Dean is still smiling. He is gold and warm. He lies facing Castiel, and he touches Castiel’s face again, his hair, soft and slow. It is so nice. It would be stupid to want to cry, even just a little.

“You’re happier,” Castiel says. 

Dean pauses. He nods, once, and lets his hand fall down between them.

“Cas,” he says, seriously. Castiel watches him, waiting. “Look. I’m not good at this whole thing. You know. Relationships.”

He makes a face, and Castiel frowns. He thinks of Dean, funny and kind, always trying to make Castiel smile, always trying to make sure he’s okay. He thinks of everything that Dean has done for him, as if it were nothing at all. 

“Yes you are,” Castiel says, incredulous. 

Dean blinks. 

“Uh.” He seems flustered, glancing away, pulling another face. But then he just laughs. He closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says. “Well. Thanks, man. But what I mean is.” He draws in a breath and doesn’t quite look at Castiel. “You weren’t talking to me,” he says. “And it felt – well. You’d helped me with the shit about Sam, the shit when I was a kid. And then I got radio silence back, you know? And I felt stupid. Like maybe I’d fucked up, maybe you weren’t actually all in, here. And it was just me, being an idiot.” 

Castiel stares at him. “I didn’t,” he starts, and stops. It is quite a lot to manage. To know that Dean could feel like this, and Castiel could miss it. “I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t understand.” Dean nods, and Castiel can see that he’s relieved, and embarrassed, and he isn’t sure which is worse. “I thought you might be angry I couldn’t help more,” he explains. “With the research.”

Now Dean is staring at Castiel. 

“Jesus,” he says. “No, Cas, Christ. I don’t – I don’t need you fixing everything, dude. That’s not what this is. Come on.”

“Okay,” Castiel says. He thinks that he understands that, now. He smiles, and Dean looks at him, then shifts back on the bed. He lifts his arm a little, smiling too, eyebrows raised, and Castiel understands this, too. He moves to lean against Dean. “Dean,” he says. “I am all in. Like you said.” He's never very good with Dean’s terms, but Castiel still thinks that he loves Dean, probably, and he thinks that that counts for all in. 

Dean laughs, sudden and shaky, and Castiel can feel it in Dean’s chest. He rests his hand there. Dean’s hand is moving through Castiel's hair. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says, and his voice is lilting, amused. Happy. “Do you want to stay at my place over Christmas?” 

Castiel blinks. Once, then again. 

Then he relaxes. He lets himself rest against Dean, boneless and tired. The evening finally over.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

\--

He wakes early the next morning. Dean is still sleeping. Dean is breathing steady and slow, his chest rising and falling below Castiel’s hand. His face is lax with sleep. Castiel smiles at him, and then he closes his eyes again.

And he is still not sure what he's doing, now. He’s not sure of his next step. But he thinks that he knows where he can start. He can buy himself the memory foam. He can buy drinks for Hannah, for Muriel and Muriel’s friend. He can buy a Christmas present for Dean.


End file.
